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IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fortyyearsonOOhamiiala 


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FORTY   YEARS   ON 


Photo.  Elliott  &  Fry 


FORTY  YEARS  ON 


BY 

LORD    ERNEST    HAMILTON 


NEW    >tajr    YORK 
GEORGE  FL  DORAN  COMPANY 

{Printed  in  Great  Britain,] 


Pbimtko    in  Orkat  Britain   bt 

BicHABD  Clay  &  Sons,  Limitsd, 

BUNGAY,  avrvouL. 


Annex 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

PAGE 

I. 

THE   SIXTIES 

1 

II. 

BLESSED   SHADES    . 

18 

III. 

FAMILY   HISTORY     . 

30 

IV. 

BARONS    COURT 

45 

V. 

THE   SEVEN   SISTERS 

71 

VI. 

HARROW 

94 

VII. 

MY   FATHER    . 

106 

VIII. 

VICEREGAL   DAYS     . 

123 

IX. 

DRUMLANRIG 

130 

X. 

LANGHOLM       . 

147 

XI. 

SOLDIERING    . 

.     159 

XII. 

HOUNSLOW      . 

.     172 

XIII. 

BALLINCOLLIG 

.     188 

XIV. 

POLITICS 

.     203 

XV. 

PARLIAMENT  . 

.     222 

XVI. 

KLONDYKE      . 

.     225 

XVII. 

PERU      . 

.     247 

XVIII. 

THALASSA,   THALASSA 

.     275 

XIX. 

PETWORTH       . 

.     293 

XX. 

IN   MEMORIAM 
INDEX    . 

.     300 
.     303 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


LORD   ERNEST   HAMILTON     . 

HERMIONE,    DUCHESS   OF   LEINSTER       . 

LADY   CATHERINE   HAMILTON 

JAMES,   FIRST   DUKE   OF   ABERCORN 

WALTER   FRANCIS,   FIFTH   DUKE   OF   BUCCLEUCH 

DRUMLANRIG   CASTLE  .... 


WILLIAM    HENRY,    SIXTH    DUKE     OF    BUCCLEUCH 
THE   DUCHESS    (LADY   LOUISA   HAMILTON) 


Facing  page 
Frontispirce 


WHITE  PASS 

AUTHOR  AND  PARTY  ON  PERUVIAN  PAMPA 
FOUR  GENERATIONS  .... 


AND 


16 

32 

112 

136 

144 

152 
240 
256 
300 


Tii 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    SIXTIES 

To  those  who  may  raise  the  objection  that  the 
title  of  this  book  is  not  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
heading  of  the  opening  chapter,  I  would  merely 
observe  that  the  title  is  meant  to  strike  a  polite 
average  between  the  first  and  last  post  of  observa- 
tion, and  is  therefore  not  the  cowardly  evasion 
that  it  might  at  first  sight  appear.  I  may  add, 
in  further  explanation,  that  it  is  intended  to  be 
a  quotation  from  the  last  verse  of  the  famous 
song,  and  not  the  first  verse — a  distinction  which 
many  will  appreciate.  In  the  last  verse  the  singer 
claims  one  gain  as  against  several  losses,  but  sighs 
in  doing  it,  as  well  he  may ;  for,  though  length  of 
memory  in  another  may  have  some  value  for  the 
general  public,  it  must  always  be  but  a  shaky 
compensation  to  the  possessor  for  the  shortness 
of  wind  which  buys  it.  Nevertheless,  the  long- 
winded  and  the  short-memoried  may  be  glad  to 
read  of  the  be-haloed  days  of  yore,  when  Plancus 
was  Consul  and  the  grass  grew  green  on  the  top 
of  the  hill ;  while  the  short-winded  and  the  long- 
memoried  may  not  be  sorry  to  conjure  up  once 
more  visions  of  forms  and  features  which  were 
once  familiar  but  which  have  long  since  passed 
on  ahead. 

I  must  admit  at  the  start  that  I  do  not  approach 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

my  subject  in  the  spirit  of  a  blind  laudator 
temporis  acti.  There  must  always,  of  course,  be 
a  certain  glamour  about  the  long  past,  which 
perhaps  raises  it  above  its  true  value,  partly 
because  it  has  slipped  away  from  us,  but  mainly,  I 
think,  because  long-past  days  were  the  days  when 
limbs  were  strong  and  wind  was  sound  and  golden 
apples  hung  within  reach.  Apart  from  the  natural 
regret  which  we  must  all  feel  at  the  loss  of  such 
things,  my  own  view  is  that  the  world  has,  on 
the  whole,  gained  more  than  it  has  lost  during  the 
past  half-century.  I  know  that  few  of  my  con- 
temporaries will  agree  with  this  heresy,  but,  none 
the  less,  I  must  adhere  to  it.  Of  course,  in 
certain  directions,  there  have  been  irreparable 
losses — not  merely  money  losses,  but  losses  of  the 
sacred  customs  and  traditions  which  moulded  the 
lives  of  preceding  generations,  and  which,  in  a 
large  degree,  have  helped  to  make  England  what 
it  was  and  what,  alas  !  it  will  never  be  again. 
For  all  these  vanished  glories  and  joys  we  shed 
the  sad  tear,  not  so  much  because  they  represent 
a  personal  loss,  but  because,  with  their  passing, 
England  as  a  nation  seems  shorn  of  some  of  its 
most  distinctive  features.  It  would  almost  seem 
as  though  one  of  the  stripes  had  been  ripped  out 
of  the  Union  Jack. 

All  ill  winds,  however,  blow  good  to  somebody, 
and  in  other  directions  there  have  certainly  been 
gains.  Men  and  women  of  the  upper  classes  are 
more  enlightened  than  when  I  first  remember 
them;    girls  are  more  natural;    conversation  is 

2 


THE    SIXTIES 

less  vapid ;  sentiments  are  more  real,  and  humbug 
is  less  fashionable.  In  the  Sixties,  which  is  the 
first  decade  of  which  I  have  any  clear  recollec- 
tion— and  it  is  wonderful  how  clear  that  recollec- 
tion is — a  strong  vein  of  humbug,  both  of  self  and 
others,  ran  right  through  Society  with  a  big  S. 
The  affectations  of  the  middle  century,  in  fact — 
although  moribund — were  by  no  means  dead,  and 
the  elderly  practised  them  without  shame. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  affectations  of 
early  Victorian  days  were  a  natural  rebound  from 
the  coarseness  of  the  Georgian  period.  In  the 
depths  of  the  country,  where  things  move  slowly, 
this  Georgian  coarseness  survived  long  after 
London  had  shaken  it  off.  The  mere  foxhunter 
of  early  Victorian  days  was,  we  cannot  but 
believe,  a  very  coarse  fellow  indeed.  Surtees  has 
bowdlerised  him  in  his  immortal  works — and  quite 
properly  too — but,  reading  between  Surtees'  lines, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  guess  at  the  gross  boorishness 
of  his  Jug  Boystons,  Jack  Spraggons  and  Lord 
Scamperdales.  Out  of  the  saddle  and  at  close 
quarters,  these  gentry  must  have  left  much  to 
be  desired. 

In  an  over- eagerness  to  prove  their  aloofness 
from  the  manners  of  these  rude  sons  of  the  chase, 
the  Victorian  fops  of  the  Dundreary  type  went  to 
the  other  extreme  and  made  themselves  ridiculous 
by  an  extravagant  affectation  of  refinement.  They 
lisped;  they  drawled;  they  pronounced  their 
"  r's  "  hke  "  w's."  They  waved  scented  handker- 
chiefs in  the  air  and  eschewed  all  games  and 

3 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

sports  as  being  rough  and  coarse.  Gaiety  bur- 
lesque drew  a  far  from  exaggerated  picture  of  this 
type  in  the  famous  verse  : — 

*•  Au  revoir,  ta-ta, 
I  heard  him  say, 
To  the  Lady  Crambanally 

While  bidding  her  good-day. 
I'll  stwike  you  with  a  feather, 
I'll  stab  you  with  a  wose, 
I'll  shoot  at  you  with  wafers 
And  give  you  fearful  blows  1  " 

In  the  Sixties,  though  foppery  was  on  the  wane, 
and  had  its  contemptuous  scoffers  among  the  more 
virile  school,  there  were  still,  among  the  older 
generation,  many  surviving  specimens  of  the 
Dundreary  idiot.  There  were  also  their  feminine 
counterparts,  who  strove,  with  only  partial 
success,  to  outshine  the  Dundrearys  in  effeminacy. 
One  of  the  chief,  and  not  the  least  ridiculous 
affectation  of  the  cult  was  the  deliberate  mis- 
pronunciation, where  possible,  of  every  word  in 
the  English  language.  Septuagenarians  might 
still  be  heard  describing  how  "  The  dear  Dook  was 
obleeged  by  the  heat  to  set  in  a  gyarden  cheer, 
under  the  laloc  trees,  drinking  tay  out  of  yallow 
chancy  coops,  while  his  leddy  on  the  balc5ny  ate 
cowcumbers  and  reddishes  off  goold  plates  brought 
to  Oxfordsheer  from  Roome,"  etc,  etc.  Even 
the  middle-aged,  through  the  force  of  example, 
adopted  some  of  these  mispronunciations.  They 
spoke  of  terriers  as  "  tarriers,"  and  of  yellow  as 
"  yallow,"  but  the  young  eschewed  them  alto- 
gether.    Certain  names,   however,   such  as  Pall 

4 


THE    SIXTIES 

Mall,  Berkshire   and  Derby,  have   permanently 
taken  on  the  corrupted  vowel  sound. 

The  mid- Victorian  girls  were  as  natural  as  their 
mothers  allowed  them  to  be,  but  the  habit  of 
artificiality  was  still  too  strong  to  be  entirely 
shaken  off  in  one  generation.  Nevertheless,  the 
girls,  even  though  not  quite  natural,  were  very 
sweet.  Their  complexions  were  clear  and  fresh 
and  wholly  innocent  of  the  modern  disfiguring 
pastes  and  powders.  The  most  strenuous  pre- 
cautions were  taken  to  preserve  these  complexions 
in  their  original  purity.  The  first  gleam  of  sun- 
shine, no  matter  how  weak  and  watery,  was  the 
signal  for  every  young  woman  and  girl  to  hoist  a 
parasol.  Lawn  tennis,  hockey,  golf  and  other 
similar  exercises,  where  maiden  cheeks  have  to  be 
exposed  to  sun  and  wind,  were  of  course  unknown. 
Croquet  and  archery  were  the  most  violent  forms 
of  exercise  allowed.  No  girl  or  woman  could 
swim.  Swimming  would  have  been  considered 
highly  immodest,  as  swimming  necessitates  a 
swimming  costume.  When  ladies  did  bathe, 
which  was  seldom,  they  did  so  in  conventual 
seclusion.  Enveloped  from  head  to  foot  in  thick 
blue  sackcloth,  they  crept  into  the  sea  under  the 
shelter  of  huge  hoods  which  extended  from  the 
bathing  machines  to  the  water.  Here  they 
pranced  at  the  end  of  a  rope  for  some  minutes  and 
then  emerged.  Any  man  trespassing  within  eye- 
distance  of  this  immodest  exhibition  of  the  female 
form  was  branded  a  barbarian  in  the  first  degree. 

On  dry  land,  feminine  forms  were  pinched  and 

5 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

trussed  into  all  sorts  of  odd  shapes  suggestive  of 
anything  rather  than  the  work  of  the  Creator. 
The  natural  female  shape  was  considered  an 
indecency,  and  immense  pains  were  taken  to 
camouflage  it  in  every  way  possible.  Feminine 
beauty  was  not  perhaps  more  admired  than  it 
is  to-day,  but  it  was  certainly  more  discussed 
and  was  invested  with  higher  importance.  The 
charms  of  reigning  beauties  formed  one  of  the 
regular  topics  of  dinner-table  talk.  They  were 
called  "  professional "  beauties  in  those  days. 
They  were  not  numerous,  but  their  reigns  were 
long.  Mrs.  Asquith,  in  her  Autobiography,  gives 
us  a  list  of  such  beauties  in  the  Eighties,  and, 
after  singing  their  merits,  laments  the  fact  that 
she  can  see  no  beautiful  women  to-day.  This 
is  hardly  understandable,  because  there  are  un- 
questionably many  more  beautiful  women  about 
to-day  than  there  were  in  the  Eighties.  It  could 
hardly  be  otherwise  with  the  expansion  in  all 
directions  of  that  indefinite  body  known  as 
Society.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  to-day 
female  beauty  is  taken  as  a  matter  of  course  and  is 
not  made  a  song  of  as  it  used  to  be.  There  are 
any  number  of  beautiful  women  in  London  Society 
about  whose  beauty  no  fuss  is  made  at  all.  In 
the  Eighties  their  charms  would  have  been  shouted 
from  every  housetop  in  Belgravia  and  Mayfair. 
They  would  have  been  set  on  pinnacles  on  which 
they  would  have  remained  till  they  were  grand- 
mothers, objects  of  feminine  gush,  while  men  made 
love  elsewhere. 

6 


THE    SIXTIES 

While  registering  my  opinion  that  the  women 
of  to-day  are  on  the  whole  just  as  beautiful  as 
the  women  of  the  Eighties,  the  Seventies  and  the 
Sixties,  and  perhaps  more  so,  for  they  are  more 
like  women  and  less  like  penwipers,  I  must  make 
one  exception  in  favour  of  the  late  Duchess  of 
Leinster,  in  my  opinion  incomparably  the  most 
beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  seen — one  other 
always  excepted.  All  Lord  Feversham's  daugh- 
ters were  beautiful — astonishingly  beautiful — but, 
if  the  four  Yorkshire  sisters  had  stood  in  com- 
petition before  Paris,  I  think  he  would  have  given 
the  apple  to  Lady  Hermione,  afterwards  Duchess 
of  Leinster.  As  a  child  of  sixteen  or  so,  when 
she  and  her  sisters  used  to  play  about  in  Belgrave 
Square,  her  beauty  was  so  dazzling  as  to  be 
almost  unbelievable.  It  was  not  only  that  she 
was  divinely  tall  and  absolutely  flawless  in  shape, 
feature  and  complexion — a  very  rare  combina- 
tion— but  she  also  had  on  her  face  that  look  of 
radiant  goodness  which,  for  some  mysterious 
reason,  is  seldom  seen  on  the  faces  of  any  except 
those  doomed  to  an  early  death. 

Drawing-room  conversation  in  the  Sixties  was 
mainly  anecdotal,  as  indeed  it  must  always  be  in 
a  Society  which  has  no  knowledge  of  the  practical 
side  of  life.  The  raconteur,  from  whom  people 
now  flee  as  from  the  plague,  was  then  in  great 
request.  Even  he,  however,  would  only  tap 
his  stock  of  anecdotes  on  occasions  worthy  of 
the  effort.  Election  results  were  discussed  with 
feverish  interest,  but  only  in  the  light  of  pure 

7 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

party.  No  attempt  was  ever  made  to  analyse 
party  propaganda.  For  the  rest,  conversation 
revolved  round  the  simple  topics  of  food,  health 
and  the  weather,  and  in  no  case  was  any  attempt 
made  to  soar  above  accepted  generalities.  Few 
indeed,  in  mid- Victorian  days,  had  the  temerity 
to  exploit  original  ideas.  The  intellectual  level 
of  the  day  did  not  demand  any  such  excursions, 
and  such  as  made  the  attempt  were  eyed  suspici- 
ously. Although  health  and  the  weather  were 
generally  recognised  as  suitable  subjects  for 
dinner-table  talk,  at  moments  when  conversation 
was  flagging,  undoubtedly  the  most  popular  sub- 
ject for  discussion  was  food;  for,  whereas  in  the 
former  case  Society  merely  passed  on  the  views 
of  the  doctor  or  the  gardener,  on  the  question  of 
food  it  could  air  first-hand  opinions.  It  was  also 
very  well  up  in  its  subject,  to  which  much  study 
and  attention  were  devoted.  The  meal  known  as 
*'  dinner  "  was  little  short  of  a  religious  rite.  It 
was  no  longer  the  disgusting  orgy  that  it  had  been 
in  the  early  nineteenth  century,  but  it  was  still  a 
function  to  which  everything  else  in  the  day  was 
subordinate.  People  went  out  specially  to  get 
up  an  appetite  for  dinner.  They  refrained  from 
doing  this  or  doing  that  for  fear  of  "  spoiling 
their  dinner."  Other  meals  were  of  no  account. 
They  were,  I  think,  even  looked  upon  with  dis- 
favour as  poachers  on  the  preserves  of  the  final 
great  gastronomic  function.  None  of  the  old 
school  would  look  at  five-o'clock  tea  for  fear  it 
might  imperil  their  powers  of  enjoyment  later  on. 


THE    SIXTIES 

In  a  Society  so  naive  and  simple-minded  as 
that  of  the  Sixties,  the  professional  classes,  as  may 
readily  be  imagined,  ran  joyous  riot.  No  layman 
had  sufficient  knowledge  to  question,  in  the 
smallest  particular,  the  dogmatic  utterances  of 
the  doctor,  the  parson,  the  lawyer  or  even  the 
gardener.  Doctors,  I  think,  were  held  in  the 
highest  reverence  of  all  the  professionals.  Their 
status  was  almost  that  of  magicians  wielding 
mysterious  and  supernatural  powers.  They 
exercised  unchallenged  sway  over  every  affluent 
household.  As  a  direct  consequence,  sickliness 
became  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Robust  health 
was  looked  down  upon  as  vulgar.  Mothers  with 
the  greatest  reluctance  admitted  that  their 
children  were  not  diseased.  "  Oh,  no;  he  (or 
she)  is  not  really  strong,"  was  the  common  form 
of  apology  for  red  cheeks  and  large  appetites. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  many  little  weaknesses 
which  are  inseparable  from  an  age  in  which  prac- 
tical knowledge  is  looked  down  upon  as  savouring 
of  the  middle-classes.  Society  of  the  Sixties  had 
many  joyous  aspects  for  the  few  who  had  the 
entrSe  to  the  best  houses.  I  was  but  a  diminutive 
onlooker  of  the  doings  of  those  days.  My  joys 
were  the  never-failing  and  never-changing  joys  of 
childhood  in  every  age.  I  trundled  hoops  and 
chased  butterflies ;  but,  young  as  I  was,  my  mind 
is  quite  clear  as  to  the  happy-family  fashion  in 
which  the  great  world  lived.  Society,  of  course, 
was  very  small  and  very  clearly  defined.  Every- 
one knew  everyone  else  in  that  exclusive  circle, 

9 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

and  as  well  might  the  Pope  of  Rome  have  tried 
to  enter  Mecca,  as  the  self-made  millionaire  to 
find  a  footing  in  that  sacred  throng.  Although 
many  within  the  guarded  gates  were  very  rich, 
there  was  no  glaring  parade  of  wealth.  Tastes 
were  very  simple.  The  artistic  sense  among  the 
upper  classes  was  quite  undeveloped  and  yet,  to 
a  certain  extent,  the  ends  of  art  were  achieved 
unconsciously.  Shiny  chintz  covers  draped  chairs 
and  sofas  both  in  town  and  country,  and  gave 
to  the  living-rooms  a  certain  air  of  freshness 
and  distinction  which  even  the  hideous  wall- 
papers could  not  entirely  dissipate.  Furniture 
was  solid  and  very  ugly.  Sheraton  and  Chippen- 
dale ware  was  pronounced  "  gimcracky "  and 
pushed  away  out  of  sight  in  lumber-rooms. 
White  paint  and  pale  shades  of  green  or  blue  were 
shuddered  at  as  being  "  so  cold."  Chocolate  or 
maroon  was  preferred.  Reds  of  all  shades  were 
in  great  request  as  looking  "  warm."  Tables  were 
concealed  under  crimson  plush  covers,  and  up  the 
corners  of  walls  ran  gilded  laths. 

Amidst  these  surroundings,  long- whiskered  men 
lounged  about  in  peg-top  trousers  and  loose  coats 
fastened  by  a  single  button  under  the  chin.  Out- 
of-doors  they  wore  Glengarry  caps.  The  ladies 
wore  crinolines  and  flounces  and  the  same  loose 
jackets  buttoned  under  the  chin.  On  their  heads, 
when  out-of-doors,  they  wore  very  shallow  flat 
hats  with  curly  brims.  No  more  disfiguring 
female  dress  has  ever  been  devised  by  the  ingenuity 
of  man, 

10 


THE    SIXTIES 

The  men  and  women  who,  thus  attired,  gathered 
round  our  hearth  stand  out  very  clearly  in  my 
memory.  The  Jocelyns  and  their  family;  the 
Elchos  and  their  very  large  family ;  the  Pophams ; 
Hugh  Greville;  Alfred  Montgomery  and  the 
husbands  of  my  four  eldest  sisters,  Lichfield, 
Durham,  Dalkeith  and  Mount-Edgcumbe.  All 
of  these  came  and  went  in  constant  rotation  and 
are  clearly  photographed  upon  my  mind,  but  the 
two  figures  that,  from  the  first,  dwarf  all  others  are 
those  of  my  father  and  mother.  As  the  youngest 
of  a  family  of  thirteen,  and  twenty-four  years  the 
junior  of  my  eldest  sister,  I  have  naturally  no 
recollection  of  youthful  parents.  From  the  very 
first  my  father  and  mother  stand  out  on  the  screen 
of  life  as  old  people,  but  as  old  people  who  over- 
shadowed all  competitors  as  objects  of  adora- 
tion— my  father  stalwart  and  magnificent,  the 
handsomest  man  of  his  day,  a  little  aloof,  perhaps, 
but  all  the  more  adorable  on  that  account;  and 
my  mother  the  very  embodiment  of  Christian 
charity,  refusing  to  believe  evil  of  any  and  shed- 
ding sweetness  and  kindliness  on  all  around  her. 
These  two,  so  utterly  different  the  one  from  the 
other  and  yet  each  with  so  compelling  a  person- 
ality, hold  the  stage  unchallenged  through  all  the 
changing  scenes  of  my  early  life. 

These  scenes  changed  with  exciting  frequency. 
When  I  first  opened  my  eyes  upon  the  world,  we 
were  in  occupation  of  Brocket  Hall,  which  my 
father  rented  from  Lord  Palmerston.  Although 
we  left  this  charming  place  when  I  was  five,  and 

11 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

although  I  have  never  revisited  it,  my  recollec- 
tion of  the  house  and  immediate  surroundings  is 
very  clear.  I  can  see,  as  though  photographed, 
the  house  with  its  divided  staircase,  the  lake,  the 
home-farm  across  the  lake  and  the  bridges  at 
each  end.  Of  stirring  incidents,  however,  my 
mind  seems  barren.  The  most  outstanding  seems 
to  be  that  of  Jack  Durham  ^  (then  Jack  Lambton) 
kicking  the  donkey-boy.  I  must  have  been  five 
at  the  time,  and  Jack  Lambton,  although  my 
nephew,  was  three  years  my  senior.  We  were, 
I  remember,  watching  the  donkey  pumping  up  the 
water  for  the  house.  The  boy  in  attendance 
thought  good  to  encourage  the  donkey's  efforts 
by  kicking  it  in  the  stomach.  Jack  Lambton 
watched  this  procedure  in  silence  for  a  minute  or 
so  and  then,  without  a  word,  seized  the  donkey- 
boy  by  the  collar  and  kicked  him  as  hard  as  he 
had  been  kicking  the  unfortunate  donkey,  but  in  a 
different  quarter.  Whether  the  boy,  who  must 
have  been  some  years  older  than  Jack,  made  any 
resistance,  I  cannot  remember.  But  the  inci- 
dent is  interesting  as  marking  Jack  Durham, 
even  at  that  early  age,  as  the  fearless  champion  of 
the  weak  and  the  sworn  foe  of  all  dirty  dealings. 

When  I  was  five,  we  migrated  for  three  years  to 
Beaudesert  Park,  which  my  father  rented  from 
Lord  Anglesea.  As  in  the  case  of  Brocket,  the 
topography  of  Beaudesert  is  very  clearly  im- 
printed on  my  mind,  but  once  again  no  incident 
seems  worthy  of  record  except,  perhaps,  the  inci- 

1  John,  third  Earl  of  Durham. 
12 


THE    SIXTIES 

dent  of  my  nurse  throwing  the  slop-basin  at  the 
nursery-maid. 

Our  nursery  occupied  a  corner  room  on  the  top 
floor  and  was  connected  with  the  lower  regions  by 
a  small  turret  staircase.  On  the  memorable  even- 
ing in  question,  our  tea-table  was  laid,  but  the 
tea  did  not  arrive  with  its  customary  punctuality. 
The  delay  would  seem  to  have  incensed  our  worthy 
nurse  more  than  the  occasion  warranted,  for, 
when  the  nursery-maid  eventually  appeared 
through  the  door  of  the  turret  stairs  bearing  the 
tray,  she  was  saluted  by  the  slop-basin,  hurled 
at  her  head  with  accurate  aim  and  considerable 
force.  The  girl  placed  the  tray  in  safety,  wiped 
the  blood  from  her  face  and  then  gave  vent  to  a 
suitable  flow  of  tears.  There,  as  far  as  I  know, 
the  incident  closed.  Why  the  girl  made  no  com- 
plaint is  more  than  I  can  say,  but  it  is  possible 
that  the  nurse  knew  things  about  her  which  would 
have  squared  accounts  had  she  complained. 

At  the  above  scene,  as  may  be  supposed,  I 
gazed  in  open-eyed  amazement,  wondering  what 
it  all  meant,  for  the  nurse  in  question  was  a 
particularly  kind  woman  whom  my  brother  and  I 
absolutely  adored.  The  explanation,  as  we  after- 
wards found  out,  lay  in  the  brandy-bottle.  The 
good  nurse  had  occasional  recourse  to  this  bottle, 
which,  instead  of  exhilarating,  as  it  should  have 
done,  produced  exactly  the  opposite  effect,  and 
made  her,  for  the  time  being,  a  danger  to  her 
neighbours.  We  children,  too,  suffered  occasion- 
ally  from   unaccountable   fits    of  fury    born    of 

13 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

brandy,  but  we  bore  no  ill-will  for  them,  although 
wondering  a  good  deal  what  it  all  meant.  I 
remember  well  that,  when  this  nurse's  time  came 
to  leave,  I  tried  hard  to  recall  all  the  acts  of 
violence  from  which  I  had  suffered  at  her  hands, 
so  as  to  soften  the  pang  of  parting  from  one  whom 
I  loved  so  dearly. 

Apart  from  this  one  incident,  Beaudesert  is 
chiefly  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  singing  of 
pretty  little  Mrs.  Popham.  Mrs.  Popham  had  a 
very  sweet  voice  and  sang,  to  a  guitar  accompani- 
ment, little  songs  of  which  the  words  and  music 
were  her  own.  By  comparison  with  modern 
drawing-room  performances  these  songs  would 
now  seem  simple  and  crude,  but  they  certainly 
had  a  sweetness  and  pathos  about  them  which  the 
modern  song  misses.  Mrs.  Popham's  singing  of 
them  made  a  lasting  impression  on  my  youthful 
mind.  I  never  tired  of  hearing  the  following 
ballad  sung,  sitting  in  rapt  silence  beside  her,  as 
directed  by  the  words  of  the  song,  which  are,  of 
course,  supposed  to  be  addressed  to  a  child : 

"  Sit  beside  me ;  I  will  tell 

Why  my  heart  is  always  aching, 
Why  I  gaze  across  the  vale, 

Watching  shadows  circles  making. 

"  In  the  winter,  years  ago. 

Long  before  you  can  remember, 

All  the  earth  was  white  with  snow 

In  the  month  of  cold  December. 

"  I  was  waiting  at  the  gate, 

Watching,  sick  at  heart  and  weary; 
He  was  never  home  so  late, 

Crossing  o'er  the  mountain  dreary. 
14 


THE    SIXTIES 

"  Never  since  that  winter's  day 

Has  my  heart  been  free  from  sorrow, 
For  beneath  the  snow  he  lay, 
No  one  found  him  till  the  morrow. 

*'  That  is  why  I  look  so  pale, 

Why  my  heart  is  always  aching. 
Why  I  gaze  across  the  vale, 

Watching  shadows  circles  making." 

The  beauty  of  the  musical  setting  and  the  sweet 
quality  of  the  singer's  voice  gave  a  charm  to 
these  simple  words  which  can  hardly  be  described. 
My  other  favourite,  "  They  told  me  the  old  house 
was  haunted,"  had  a  happier  ending  : 

"  They  told  me  my  heart  would  be  broken, 

My  young  life  be  withered  away ; 
But  in  answer  I  gave  them  a  token 

Of  what  I  had  found  there  that  day. 
For  though  the  wild  fir  trees  were  creaking, 

And  ghosts  were  in  every  part, 
I  found  what  I  long  had  been  seeking — 

A  heart  I  could  take  to  my  heart." 

That  was  the  song  of  Littlecote,  where  the 
ghost  of  Wild  Dayrell  was  supposed  to  haunt  all 
the  successors  of  that  Judge  Popham  into  whose 
hands  the  property  had  passed  after  the  trial  and 
acquittal  of  Dayrell  on  the  charge  of  murder. 

In  1866  my  father  was  appointed  Lord-Lieu- 
tenant of  Ireland  and  we  left  Beaudesert  for  the 
Viceregal.  Lodge.  This  to  my  small-boy's  mind 
was  a  tremendous  event  from  which  I  anticipated 
every  sort  of  pleasurable  excitement.  These 
hopes  were  not  fully  realised.  Small  boys  of 
eight  are  a  misfit  in  Viceregal  functions,  so  that  it 
was  little  of  the  Court  festivities  that  I  saw  during 
my  father's  first  term  of  office.     There  were  certain 

15 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

supreme  moments,  however,  when  my  brother 
and  I  found  that  we  were  not  without  an  official 
value.  When  State  "  Drawing-Rooms "  took 
place  we  were  brought  forth  from  our  schoolroom 
obscurity  and  given  temporary  official  rank  as 
pages  to  our  mother.  Gorgeously  attired  in  white 
satin  breeches,  blue  poplin  tunics  slashed  with 
silver  braid  and  tin-bladed  swords,  we  proudly 
took  up  our  position  behind  the  throne.  We 
dearly  loved  these  full-dress  functions.  The 
excitement  of  seeing  the  Dublin  ladies  file  past 
for  presentation  never  palled.  When  we  recog- 
nised friends  or  acquaintances  among  those 
presented  our  excitement  was  doubled.  Un- 
doubtedly, however,  our  greatest  joy  was  when, 
as  occasionally  happened,  one  of  the  Dublin  ladies 
became  overcome  by  bashfulness  at  the  prospect 
of  being  kissed  by  the  Lord-Lieutenant.  It  was 
the  custom  of  the  Court  that  every  lady  presented 
should  submit  to  a  salute  from  the  Viceregal  lips. 
This  rite  was  as  time-honoured  and  invariable  as 
the  baptismal  ceremony,  and  yet  no  Drawing- 
Room  ever  passed  without  one  or  two  of  the 
victims  being  overcome  by  a  sudden  access  of 
modesty.  It  was  never  the  young  or  pretty  ones 
who  raised  objections,  but  always  some  mature 
dame  or  damsel  of  many  Dublin  winters.  These 
would  back  and  shy  and  giggle  and  simper  till 
in  the  end  Gustavus  Lambert  was  forced  with  the 
aid  of  his  underlings  to  drag  them  squealing  up 
to  the  throne,  there  to  receive  the  Lord-Lieu- 
tenant's reluctant  kiss  upon  their  wrinkled  cheeks. 

16 


Photo.  Lafayette. 


Hermione,  Duchess  of  Leinster. 


THE    SIXTIES 

We  two  small  pages  used  to  welcome  these  displays 
of  modesty  with  frantic  enthusiasm. 

On  the  occasion  of  one  Drawing-Room,  when 
the  ladies  were  disappointingly  forward,  and 
when  proceedings  were  therefore  a  trifle  dull,  my 
brother  discovered  that  there  was  just  room  for 
two  small  boys  to  creep  in  between  the  throne  and 
the  wall  behind  it,  and  there  to  curl  up  and  go 
to  sleep.  It  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  us 
that  we  emerged  from  our  resting-place  with  our 
beautiful  liveries  coated  with  the  dust  of  ages. 
Those  who  had  charge  of  our  morals  were  very 
much  disturbed,  and  dusted  our  coats  (and  our 
breeches  too)  with  a  vigour  which  convinced  us 
that  in  the  long  run  it  was  more  profitable,  even 
though  more  wearisome,  to  stand. 

Gustavus  Lambert,  the  Chamberlain,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  lead  the  recalcitrant  Dublin  ladies 
to  the  sacrifice,  was  a  singularly  striking  and 
picturesque  figure,  for,  when  not  in  official 
uniform,  he  invariably  wore  a  tight  blue  frock- 
coat  with  cross  bars  of  braid,  and  Hessian  boots. 
He  had  a  very  dignified  bearing  and  a  very  tightly 
waxed  moustache  which,  in  combination  with  his 
Hessian  boots,  made  him  an  obj  ect  of  ceaseless  glad- 
ness to  my  eyes.  Lady  Fanny,  his  wife,  who  was 
a  Conyngham  by  birth,  was  little  less  striking  in  her 
own  way.  A  very  handsome  woman  of  the  Spanish 
type,  she  had  a  predilection  for  dresses  of  Zingari 
colours  which,  in  those  days  of  expansive  crino- 
lines, produced  some  fine  colour  effects.  They  had 
a  galaxy  of  extremely  good-looking  daughters. 
o  17 


CHAPTER  II 

BLESSED   SHADES 

One  of  the  first  figures  of  public  interest  to 
which  long  memory  carries  one  back  is  that  of 
Queen  Alexandra,  who,  as  Princess  of  Wales, 
visited  my  father  at  Dublin  Castle  in  1867. 
H.R.H.,  as  I  remember  her,  was  then  a  vision  of 
smiles,  side-ringlets  and  general  loveliness.  It  is 
no  more  than  the  bare  truth  to  say  that  in  the 
Irish  metropolis  she  won  all  hearts,  and,  among 
them,  that  of  an  insignificant  but  adoring  boy 
of  eight  and  a  half. 

My  small,  and  probably  dirty,  hands  were  at 
that  time  badly  disfigured  by  a  number  of  warts. 
The  application  of  caustic  to  these  warts  had 
turned  them  brown,  which  cannot  have  added 
to  their  attractiveness.  H.R.H.  took  the  most 
solicitous  interest  in  my  complaint  and  examined 
my  repulsive  little  hands  with  the  tenderest  care. 
After  listening  to  a  recital  of  my  woes — for  my 
warts  were  a  source  of  great  shame  and  distress 
to  me — she  promised  that  she  would  charm  them 
away  for  me.  A  certain  rite  was  gone  through, 
to  the  best  of  my  recollection  with  hazel  twigs, 
but,  be  that  as  it  may,  the  fact  remains,  that 
from  that  day  on  my  warts  began  to  disappear 
and  have  never  shown  any  tendency  to  return. 

18 


BLESSED    SHADES 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  I  worshipped 
with  a  lasting  adoration  the  lovely  Princess  who 
had  worked  this  Hans  Andersen  miracle  on  me. 

H.R.H.,  in  common  with  other  members  of  the 
Royal  Family,  had  the  gift  of  never  forgetting  a 
face  and  seldom  forgetting  an  incident,  no  matter 
how  trivial.  When,  some  fourteen  years  later, 
the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  came  to  stay 
with  my  father  at  Barons  Court,  I  was  duly 
presented  and  made  my  bow.  H.R.H.  graciously 
shook  hands  with  me  and  then,  retaining  my 
hand,  said:  "But  where  are  the  warts?"  I 
explained  that  her  magic  had  effected  a  per- 
manent cure,  at  which  she  was  greatly  pleased. 

The  next  occasion  on  which  I  came  in  contact 
with  their  Royal  Highnesses  carries  with  it  less 
pleasing  recollections.  In  1885  the  Prince  and 
Princess  of  Wales  paid  a  friendly  visit  to  the  city 
of  Cork,  and  part  of  my  regiment  formed  the 
escort  while  the  remainder  kept  the  streets. 
My  own  troop  was  stationed  in  Patrick  Street, 
where  an  immense  crowd  had  collected.  On  the 
approach  of  the  Royal  carriage,  to  my  horror 
and  unspeakable  indignation,  the  entire  crowd 
gave  vent  to  a  chorus  of  boos,  hisses  and  shrill 
howls  of  execration,  to  which  H.R.H. ,  wholly 
undismayed,  replied  with  her  invariably  sweet 
and  winning  smile.  So  far  from  disarming  the 
crowd  of  its  malice,  this  turning  of  the  other 
cheek  seemed  only  to  incense  it  the  more,  for 
presently  onions  began  to  fly  through  the  air 
and,    finally,    a   miniature    wooden    coffin    was 

19 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

thrown  with  accurate  aim  into  the  Royal  carriage 
and  landed  almost  on  H.R.H.'s  knees.  A  more 
despicable  and  cowardly  return  for  a  visit  which 
was  undertaken  solely  with  a  view  to  doing 
honour  to  Cork  can  hardly  be  imagined,  and  I 
can  answer  for  it  that  there  was  not  a  man  in 
my  troop  who  would  not  gladly  have  turned  the 
point  of  his  drawn  sword  upon  the  howling 
crowd  and  charged.  In  the  absence  of  orders, 
however,  we  were  powerless  to  move.  Per- 
sonally I  was  able  to  find  a  certain  comforting 
safety-valve  for  the  indignation  which  was  boiling 
within  me.  I  was  riding  a  thoroughbred  charger 
named  Gainsborough,  one  of  whose  peculiarities 
was  that,  if  I  laid  my  hand  on  his  quarters,  he 
would  instantly  lash  out  viciously  behind.  Never 
was  this  slightly  inconvenient  habit  of  more 
loyal  service  than  on  the  day  in  question.  I 
backed  him  to  where  the  crowd  was  thickest,  laid 
my  hand  innocently  on  his  quarters  and  in  an 
instant  the  crowd  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood was  scattered  like  chaff  before  the  wind. 
Half  a  dozen  times  I  repeated  the  performance, 
and  then  Gainsborough's  opportunities  for  loyal 
gymnastics  were  at  an  end,  for  that  part  of 
Patrick  Street  was  effectually  cleared. 

The  subject  of  Gainsborough  and  his  peculiar- 
ities leads  me  by  natural  channels  to  another 
incident  which  was  less  satisfactory  to  my  self- 
esteem.  One  of  the  playful  beast's  habits  was 
to  give  three  tremendous  buck-jumps  whenever 
I    mounted    him.     On    ordinary    occasions    this 

20 


BLESSED    SHADES 

display  of  spirits  rather  amused  me  and  had  no 
disturbing  effects.  One  day  I  was  ordered  to 
escort  the  Duke  of  Albany  through  the  streets 
of  Liverpool  with  the  Rupert  Lane  squadron,  the 
squadron  to  be  in  full  dress.  This  order  meant 
that  my  charger  had  to  be  decorated  with  a 
heavy  gold-embroidered  cloth,  since  obsolete,  but 
known  in  those  days  as  a  "  shabraque."  I 
inspected  my  mounted  squadron  on  foot  and 
then  proceeded  to  mount  my  own  horse,  who,  as 
usual,  delivered  himself  of  his  three  regulation 
buck- jumps.  To  my  horror  I  discovered  on  the 
instant  that  the  presence  of  this  thick  hanging- 
cloth  absolutely  prevented  my  getting  any  grip 
of  the  saddle.  The  first  buck-jump  disturbed 
my  equilibrium ;  the  second  practically  dislodged 
me  from  the  saddle,  and  the  third  shot  me  neatly 
on  to  my  back  in  the  mud  of  the  barrack  square. 
The  incident  would,  in  any  case,  have  been 
distressing,  but,  in  all  my  best  clothes,  it  was 
little  short  of  a  tragedy.  We  had  only  just  time 
to  arrive  at  our  destination  as  it  was,  so  that  to 
change  my  tunic  was  out  of  the  question.  All 
that  I  could  do  was  to  get  myself  rubbed  down 
with  a  cloth  and  to  mount  again  with  the  marks 
of  my  discomfiture  only  very  partially  effaced. 
Of  this  fact  the  small  boys  of  Liverpool  soon  gave 
me  loud  and  hilarious  proof.  This,  however, 
was  not  the  worst.  My  place,  as  commander  of 
the  squadron,  was  close  to  the  left  door  of  the 
Royal  carriage.  I  had  once  before  had  the 
honour   of   escorting   H.R.H.   from   Egham   to 

21 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Claremont  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage,  and, 
with  the  pecuhar  gift  of  his  family,  he  at  once 
recognised  me  and  made  friendly  inquiries  as  to 
the  unusual  condition  of  my  tunic  and  pantaloons. 
As  we  trotted  along,  I  told  him  my  sad  story. 
I  have  seldom  seen  anyone  laugh  more.  The 
populace  was  cheering  lustily  on  both  sides  of 
the  street  and,  between  his  acknowledgments, 
H.R.H.  would,  from  time  to  time,  turn  his  eyes 
upon  me  as  I  trotted  gloomily  at  his  side  with 
my  drawn  sword  at  the  carry,  and  would  be 
momentarily  convulsed  with  mirth.  The  Liver- 
pool Courier  next  day  remarked  that  H.R.H. 
was  looking  particularly  well,  and  for  this  bright 
and  sunny  aspect  there  is  no  doubt  that  I  was 
largely  responsible. 

A  striking  figure  in  the  Viceregal  days  of 
1866-68  was  that  of  Lord  Strathnairn,  better 
known  as  Sir  Hugh  Rose  of  Indian  Mutiny  fame. 
This  old  Scottish  warrior,  desperate  fire-eater 
though  he  was  reputed,  and  I  believe  justly,  to 
be,  was  the  very  reverse  in  appearance.  He 
had  a  mildly  benevolent  countenance,  deeply 
lined,  and  crowned  by  hair  of  most  unmilitary 
length,  which  fell  over  his  face  in  long  straggling 
locks,  suggestive  of  a  Skye  terrier.  His  manner 
was  almost  ladylike  in  its  urbanity  and,  in  place 
of  affecting  a  military  attitude,  he  habitually 
stood  with  his  hands  limply  crossed  in  front  of 
him.  He  spoke  in  a  weak,  husky  voice,  and  his 
whole  manner,  speech  and  appearance  suggested 
an  amiable,  absent-minded  old  lady  rather  than 

22 


BLESSED    SHADES 

a  dashing  general.  And  yet  he  was  known  to  be 
a  leader  of  iron  will,  of  indomitable  courage  and 
of  pitiless  severity  when  circumstances  called  for 
severity. 

At  the  time  I  remember  Lord  Strathnairn  he 
was  C.-in-C.  of  the  forces  in  Ireland.  His  staff 
worshipped  him  and,  better  than  any  of  us, 
knew  how  deceptive  was  his  ladylike  manner, 
for  his  habit  was  to  lead  them  to  and  from  a 
field-day  straight  across  country  at  full  gallop, 
taking  every  fence  exactly  where  it  came  in  his 
path.  The  moment,  in  fact,  that  he  was  mounted, 
every  suggestion  of  the  amiable  lady  died  an 
instant  death,  as  anyone  can  judge  for  himself 
by  a  study  of  the  remarkable  statue  in  Knights- 
bridge,  of  which  every  turn  and  twist  is  true  to 
life. 

Lord  Strathnairn  took  a  great  fancy  to  me,  at 
that  time  a  small  boy  of  some  eight  summers, 
and  my  greatest  delight  was  to  be  allowed  to  ride 
behind  him  during  an  inspection  of  troops. 

On  one  occasion  the  92nd  Gordon  Highlanders 
had  a  field-day  and  inspection  in  the  Phoenix 
Park.  By  virtue  of  the  fact  that  my  great- 
grandmother  had  been  the  famous  Duchess  of 
Gordon  who  raised  the  regiment,  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  sporting  a  Gordon  tartan  kilt  alternately 
with  one  of  Royal  Stuart  tartan,  my  right  to 
wear  which  was  based  on  even  more  remote 
family  ties.  Lord  Strathnairn,  always  full  of 
little  kindnesses,  had  made  me,  on  my  eighth 
birthday,   a   very   handsome   present   of  a   silk 

23 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Gordon  tartan  plaid,  and,  shortly  afterwards, 
invited  me  to  accompany  him,  in  the  capacity 
of  supernumerary  A.D.C.,  during  his  inspection 
of  the  famous  regiment.  Full  of  delight,  mingled 
with  a  bursting  pride,  I  mounted  my  pony  in  all 
my  new  glory,  silk  plaid,  eagle's  feathers  and  all, 
and,  accompanied  by  a  guardian  groom,  rode 
out  to  the  Phoenix  Park  to  await  the  arrival  of 
Lord  Strathnairn,  who  was  expected  from  the 
direction  of  the  Royal  Hospital.  Presently  he 
arrived — as  usual  at  full  gallop — and  I  fell  in 
behind  him  as  he  trotted  down  the  line.  My 
new  silk  plaid  had  a  heavy  fringe,  and,  the 
moment  I  started  trotting,  this  fringe  tickled  my 
pony's  quarters  so  distressingly  that  he  gave 
them  a  vicious  hoist  in  the  air  and  shot  me  clean 
over  his  head  before  the  whole  regiment.  Even 
to  this  day  I  remember  the  overwhelming 
sense  of  shame  with  which  I  picked  myself  up 
and  ignominiously  limped  on  foot  down  the 
interminable  row  of  grinning  Highlanders. 

In  his  last  years  Lord  Strathnairn  became  very 
absent-minded.  At  one  Foreign  Office  reception 
which  he  attended,  he  asked  everyone  he  knew 
to  dine  with  him  on  the  following  night,  and  then 
forgot  all  about  it.  Next  night,  some  thirty- 
seven  hungry  and  expectant  people  disembarked 
from  various  vehicles  at  the  front  door  of  his 
tiny  house  in  Charles  Street.  As  there  were  no 
preparations  made  and  nothing  in  the  house  to 
eat,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  return  the 
way  they  had  come.     The  guests  immediately 

24 


BLESSED    SHADES 

concerned  were  not  nearly  so  amused  at  the 
incident  as  were  their  friends  who  heard  about 
it  next  day. 

As  may  be  gathered  from  the  above  incident, 
Lord  Strathnairn  was  particularly  fond  of  enter- 
taining and  boasted  a  very  excellent  cook.  It 
was  not  his  habit  to  forget  his  dinner-parties  as 
he  did  in  the  case  of  his  unhappy  Foreign  Office 
friends,  but  he  sometimes  forgot  whether  he  was 
dining  in  his  own  house  or  another's.  On  one 
occasion,  when  dining  with  Lady  A.,  and  in  a 
particularly  absent-minded  mood,  he  suddenly 
turned  to  his  hostess  and  said  :  "  My  dear 
Lady  A.,  I  really  must  apologise  to  you  for  this 
extremely  nasty  dinner.  I  cannot  imagine  what 
has  come  over  my  cook.  I  have  never  known 
her  so  disgrace  herself  before." 

In  the  midst  of  a  disconnected  jumble  of 
childish  memories — memories  in  which  there  is  no 
chronological  order  but  occasional  very  clearly- 
cut  incidents — the  Viceregal  cricket  season  of 
1867  takes  foremost  place.  It  is  not  the  actual 
ebb  and  flow,  success  or  failure  of  the  cricket 
matches  that  I  remember,  for  in  these  things  I 
took  no  interest  at  the  time.  My  recollection  is 
focused  on  the  flannel-clad  figures  that  these 
cricket  matches  brought  into  prominence.  Three 
of  these  figures  are  as  clearly  photographed  in 
my  mind  as  though  the  days  that  I  am  writing 
of  were  the  days  before  yesterday,  instead  of 
being  nearly  sixty  years  away.  The  three  figures 
are  those  of  Baby  Stewart,  R.  H.  Mitchell  and 

25 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Charlie  BuUer.  All  these  three,  I  remember, 
wore  little  pork-pie  Zingari  caps,  with  the  I.Z. 
monogram  in  front,  cotton  shirts  buttoned  close 
up  to  the  neck,  and  finished  off  with  a  little 
Zingari  tie  in  a  bow,  and,  invariably,  a  Zingari 
belt  with  a  snake  clasp.  A  flannel  or  a  silk 
shirt  open  at  the  throat  would,  in  those  days, 
have  been  considered  highly  indecorous,  nor 
would  anyone  appearing  without  a  belt  and  tie 
have  been  considered  as  fully  dressed. 

My  clearest  vision  of  the  Baby  Stewart  of 
those  days  pictures  him  in  the  Portico  drawing- 
room  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge,  singing  in  his  fine 
tenor  voice  the  solo  in  the  Zingari  battle-song, 
with  all  the  rest  of  the  team  joining  in  the  chorus. 
The  I.Z.  club  of  those  days  was  a  very  small  and 
exclusive  affair  and  its  members  esteemed  them- 
selves highly.  It  is  difficult  for  any  modern 
cricketer  who  is  entitled  to  wear  the  red,  black 
and  gold  to  realise  the  pride  of  membership  and 
esprit  de  corps  that  filled  the  breasts  of  those 
earlier  members.  The  rule  (now  wholly  dis- 
regarded) which  forbids  the  wearing  of  any  rival 
cricket  colours  was  then  rigidly  enforced.  At 
the  Viceregal  Lodge  the  members  of  the  team 
used  to  come  down  to  dinner  with  a  broad  red, 
black  and  yellow  ribbon  across  their  waistcoats, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Garter  ribbon. 

So  Baby  Stewart,  as  I  say,  sang  the  solo  of 
the  Zingari  war-song,  looking  very  young  and 
handsome  in  spite  of  his  big  side  whiskers,  and 
the  rest  of  the  team  stood  round  in  all  the  glory 

26 


BLESSED    SHADES 

of  the  club  colours  and  lustily  bellowed  the 
chorus  to  the  tune  of  the  "  Red,  White  and 
Blue  "  : 

"  So  to-night  let  us  pledge  our  devotion 
'Neath  the  folds  of  the  red,  black  and  gold." 

Baby  Stewart,  though  a  good  singer  and 
generally  an  ornament  of  Society,  was  at  no  time 
a  cricketer  of  unusual  prowess.  The  giants  of 
the  team  were  R.  H.  Mitchell  and  Charlie  BuUer, 
and  as  these  two  were,  at  the  time,  the  respective 
champions  of  Eton  and  Harrow,  partisan  feeling 
ran  very  high  as  to  which  of  the  two  was  the 
better  cricketer.  I  was,  of  course,  far  too  young 
at  the  time  to  form  any  judgment  of  my  own, 
but  I  believe  neutrals  did  not  hesitate  to  award 
the  palm  to  BuUer,  who  was  generally  reckoned 
in  those  days  to  be  only  second  as  a  cricketer  to 
young  W.  G.  Grace. 

Charlie  BuUer  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
and  certainly  one  of  the  most  fascinating  per- 
sonalities that  have  ever  flashed  across  the  path 
of  Society.  At  the  time  I  am  writing  of  he  must 
have  been  about  three  or  four  and  twenty,  and 
came  nearer  than  anyone  I  have  met  to  the  lady- 
killing,  man-felling,  fictional  hero  of  the  Guy 
Livingstone  type.  My  mental  picture  of  him  is 
very  clear.  He  was  considered  the  handsomest 
man  in  England,  but  I  remember  that,  to  my 
childish  mind,  whose  conception  of  manly  beauty 
was,  I  think,  mainly  based  on  a  portrait  of 
Abednego  in  one  of  A.L.O.E.'s  books,  he  was  not 

27 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

particularly  good-looking.  He  was  about  five 
feet  ten  in  height,  with  a  square  massive  head, 
of  the  Roman  Emperor  type,  covered  with  curly 
brown  hair.  He  had  a  well-cut  Roman  nose, 
humorous  eyes  that  were  always  half-laughing, 
and  a  rather  womanly  mouth.  His  neck  was 
thick  and  immensely  muscular  and  his  torso 
that  of  a  Hercules.  This  massive  formation  of 
the  head,  neck  and  shoulders  gave  him,  to  my 
mind,  a  slightly  top-heavy  appearance,  but  that 
he  was  not  top-heavy  was  proved  by  his  clearing 
5  ft.  6  ins.  in  the  high  jump  at  the  Harrow  School 
sports.  His  manner  was  that  of  a  sleepy  cat  and 
his  voice  a  gentle  purr.  His  physical  strength 
was  prodigious.  All  sorts  of  stories  were  afloat 
as  to  the  amazing  feats  of  strength  of  which  he 
occasionally  showed  himself  capable.  I  myself 
have  seen  him,  in  later  days,  twist  a  kitchen 
poker  about  in  his  hands  as  though  it  were  a 
piece  of  picture- wire.  One  of  his  favourite  recrea- 
tions was  to  put  on  the  gloves  with  the  leading 
heavy-weight  prize-fighters  of  the  day.  From 
what  I  have  been  given  to  understand,  the 
professionals  did  not  derive  the  same  enjoyment 
from  this  exercise  as  Charlie  Buller  did,  for  the 
latter's  punch  was  like  the  kick  of  a  horse.  The 
ladies  were  said  to  go  down  before  him  like 
thistles  before  a  scythe,  and  he  had  room  in  his 
heart  for  all.  The  extraordinary  attractiveness 
of  the  man,  to  men  no  less  than  women,  is  evi- 
denced by  the  fact  that  his  regiment  (the  2nd 
Life  Guards)  twice  paid  his  debts — a  case  without 

28 


BLESSED    SHADES 

a  parallel  in  the  history  of  the  Army.  His 
hopeless  want  of  ballast,  however,  made  the  end 
inevitable.  He  gradually  drifted  downhill.  No 
excesses  seemed  able  to  impair  his  amazing  con- 
stitution, but  his  chronic  impecuniosity,  coupled 
with  a  certain  disregard  of  recognised  rules, 
pushed  him  by  degrees  out  of  the  Society  that 
had  once  raved  so  wildly  over  him.  He  tried  his 
fortunes  in  many  countries,  and  from  time  to 
time  would  reappear  in  London,  flash  like  a 
meteor  across  the  path  of  his  old  friends,  and 
vanish  again  as  quickly  as  he  had  come.  The 
last  time  I  saw  him  was  at  Byfleet  shortly  before 
his  death.  I  was  playing  golf,  when  a  shabby 
figure  suddenly  emerged  from  a  thicket  and 
accosted  me  by  name.  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
recognising  Charlie  BuUer,  the  one-time  darling 
of  Society.  He  was  much  thinner  than  of  old, 
but  still  amazingly  handsome  and  full  of  his  old 
irresistible  cheeriness.  He  told  me  that,  for 
years  past,  he  had  been  making  a  living  as  a 
professor  of  boxing  in  America,  but  had  been 
forced  to  give  it  up  on  account  of  his  heart.  I 
asked  him  to  dine  with  me  in  London  that  night, 
and  he  accepted  the  invitation  but  did  not  turn 
up.  I  guessed  the  reason.  A  few  months  later 
I  heard  that  he  was  dead.  Few  beings  have  ever 
lived  so  bountifully  endowed  by  nature  as  was 
Charlie  Buller. 


29 


CHAPTER  III 

FAMILY     HISTORY 

My  father,  when  he  came  of  age,  had  inherited, 
among  other  things,  Bentley  Priory,  Stanmore, 
where  his  grandfather  had  dispensed  princely 
hospitality  to  William  Pitt  and  all  the  fin  de  Steele 
bucks  of  the  eighteenth  century.  This  great- 
grandfather of  mine — known  in  the  family  as  the 
*'  Old  Marquis  " — is  deserving  of  a  word  of  notice. 
He  was  an  extremely  good-looking  man  and 
highly  esteemed  by  Pitt  for  his  mental  attain- 
ments, but  he  had  a  leaning  towards  an  ostentati- 
ous display  of  magnificence,  which,  in  these  days, 
would  be  thought  both  vulgar  and  ridiculous. 
The  housemaids  who  made  his  bed  had  to  wear 
kid  gloves,  and  the  footmen  had  to  dip  their 
hands  in  a  bowl  of  rose-water  before  handing  him 
a  dish.  His  second  wife  had  to  be  ennobled  by 
Pitt  before  he  would  condescend  to  marry  her. 
Both  at  the  Priory  and  at  Hampden  House,  Green 
Street,  he  entertained  in  the  most  sumptuous 
and  extravagant  fashion.  On  one  occasion,  at 
a  reception  at  the  London  house,  the  guests  on 
arrival  found  him  surrounded  by  a  bodyguard  of 
young  ladies  of  fashion  all  clad  alike  in  classical 
costume,  and  so  scantily  that  some  of  the  guests 
fairly  gasped.     Each  wore  on  her  breast  a  band 

30 


FAMILY    HISTORY 

on  which  were  inscribed  the  three  letters  I.H.P. 
Speculation  was  rife  as  to  what  these  letters  might 
signify.  Finally  it  transpired  that  they  stood  for 
In  honore  Prions,  the  Prior,  of  course,  being  the 
Old  Marquis.  One  of  the  aforesaid  damsels — Lady 
C.  B. — was  asked  by  a  friend  if  she  was  really  as 
naked  as  she  appeared  to  be.  "  Yes,"  replied  the 
maiden,  with  candid  simplicity,  "  I  really  am." 

The  personal  adventures  of  the  Old  Marquis 
were  many  and  varied.  The  particular  adventure 
by  which  he  became  possessed  of  a  single  diamond 
of  great  size  and  beauty,  which  is  still  in  the 
family,  has  been  so  often  recounted  that  there  is 
no  need  to  repeat  it  here. 

With  the  opening  of  the  new  century.  Nemesis 
began  to  overtake  this  votary  of  pleasure,  and  the 
house  of  laughter  and  frivolity  became  the  house 
of  mourning.  The  Old  Marquis  had  married,  as 
his  first  wife,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Sir  Joseph 
Copley  of  Sprottborough,  Yorkshire.  This  lady, 
after  presenting  him  with  six  children  in  quick 
succession,  died  of  consumption.  In  1803, 
Harriet,  the  eldest  of  the  daughters,  a  handsome 
girl  with  bright  brown  hair  and  a  brilliant  com- 
plexion, who  was  engaged  to  the  third  Marquis  of 
Lansdowne,  succumbed  to  the  same  disease  at  the 
age  of  nineteen.  Five  years  later,  Claud,  the 
second  son,  a  brilliant  and  athletic  youth,  followed 
in  his  sister's  footsteps.  Catherine,  the  second 
daughter  and  the  most  beautiful  of  a  beautiful 
family,  had,  at  a  very  early  age,  married  the  great 
Lord  Aberdeen.     Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  has  left 

31 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

us  two  portraits  of  this  girl,  taken  at  different 
ages.     She  had  raven  locks,  slumberous  laughing 
eyes,  a  very  winning  expression — which  in  the 
later  portrait  has  given  way  to  a  fixed  look  of 
tragedy — and  the  fatal  brilliancy  of  colouring  for 
which  all  the  family  were  remarkable.     She  died 
four  years  after  Claud,  leaving  three  daughters. 
Only  Lord  Hamilton,  the  eldest  son,  and  Maria, 
the  youngest  of  the  family,  were  now  left,  for  the 
first  Lady  Catherine  had  died  in  infancy.     Maria, 
according  to   Lawrence's   two   portraits,    was   a 
lovely  girl  with  a  bright  sunny  face,  and  auburn 
curls  falling  over  her  shoulders.     She  was  the 
Old  Marquis'  favourite  child,  and,  as  the  others 
passed  away,  his  love  for  his  last-born  seems  to 
have  become  so  intense  that  he  had  little  other 
thought  in  the  world.     His  letters  at  this  period 
are  most  pathetic  reading,  showing,  as  they  do, 
the  agony  with  which  he  watched  over  this  young 
girl's  health  from  day  to  day.     So  far  she  had 
shown  no  signs  of  the  disease,  and  everything  that 
money  and  the  medical  science  of  the  day  could  do 
was  brought  up  into  line  to  fight  for  her  life.     It 
was   all   of  no  avail.     The  doctors   of  the   day 
believed  that  the  night  air  was  poison  and  recom- 
mended their  patients  to  sleep  with  closed  win- 
dows,  nightcaps  on  and  curtains  drawn  round 
their  four-post  beds.     Death  could  have  asked  for 
no  better  auxiliary  force.     Maria  died  a  year  and 
a  half  after  her  brother,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
and  was  followed  to  the  grave  four  months  later 
by  the  eldest  son.  Lord  Hamilton. 

32 


From  the  Paintini  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence. 

Lady  Catherine  Hamilton. 


FAMILY    HISTORY 

The  whole  generation  had  now  been  wiped  out 
by  consumption  in  the  short  space  of  eleven 
years,  and  the  Old  Marquis,  a  broken-hearted 
and  desolate  man,  never  held  his  head  up  again. 
He  joined  his  family  in  the  churchyard  at  Stanmore 
four  years  later. 

Unfortunately  the  Copley  curse  was  not  yet 
dead.  Catherine  had  left  three  girls,  who  are 
described  as  being  so  startlingly  beautiful  that 
crowds  used  to  collect  and  follow  them  on  their 
daily  walk  from  Lord  Aberdeen's  house  in 
Grosvenor  Square  to  the  Park.  All  three  died  of 
consumption  before  they  had  reached  maturity. 

The  Hamilton-Copley  alliance — disastrous  as  it 
had  proved  in  the  case  above  cited — did  not  end 
with  the  marriage  of  the  Old  Marquis  to  the  lovely 
Catherine  Copley.  The  Old  Marquis  married,  as 
his  second  wife,  his  cousin,  Cecil  Hamilton.  He 
obtained  a  divorce  from  this  lady,  who,  curi- 
ously enough,  subsequently  married  Sir  Joseph 
Copley,  the  brother  of  her  predecessor,  the  first 
Lady  Abercorn.  Three  children  resulted  from 
this  marriage,  of  whom  one  married  the  third 
Earl  Grey.  All  three,  however,  died  childless, 
so  that,  for  the  second  time,  the  Copleys  became 
extinct.  The  male  line  had  died  out  in  1719, 
but  the  name  had  been  adopted  by  a  brother-in- 
law  named  Moyle,  who  took  up  his  residence  at 
Sprottborough  Hall.  Moyle-Copley's  two  children 
have  already  been  dealt  with.  The  daughter 
married  the  Old  Marquis,  and  the  son  married 
the  Old  Marquis'  second  wife  after  she  had  been 

D  33 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

divorced.  Both  these  collateral  lines  died  com- 
pletely out  in  the  second  generation,  with  the 
exception  of  my  father,  his  brother  and  his  sister, 
who  thus  became  the  sole  survivors  of  the  Moyle- 
Copley  blood.  The  name  of  Copley  has  since 
been  added  to  the  name  of  Watson,  but  that 
combination  was  not  perpetuated,  and  it  has  now 
been  added  to  the  name  of  Bewicke. 

The  extraordinary  thing  is  that,  although  my 
grandfather  (Lord  Hamilton)  had  died  of  con- 
sumption, and  although  his  mother,  his  brother, 
all  his  sisters  and  all  his  nieces  had  died  of  con- 
sumption, he  left  three  children  who  showed  no 
trace  of  the  disease.  My  father,  his  brother 
Claud  and  his  sister  Harriet  all  lived  to  a  good 
ripe  old  age.  Of  my  father's  thirteen  children 
only  one  developed  any  symptoms  of  consump- 
tion, and  the  next  generation — a  generation  of 
Victorian  dimensions — has  been  wholly  immune. 
It  is  fairly  safe  then  to  assume  that  the  Copley 
curse  is  dead. 

Lord  Aberdeen,  the  widower  of  the  beautiful 
Catherine  Hamilton,  married  my  father's  mother 
a  year  after  the  death  of  her  first  husband  (Lord 
Hamilton),  and,  by  this  second  alliance  with  the 
family,  became  my  father's  guardian  during  his 
long  minority. 

Lord  Aberdeen  took  up  his  residence  at  the 
Priory,  from  which  my  father  used  at  first  to 
walk  the  six  miles  to  Harrow  School  and  back 
attired  in  tight  green  trousers  with  brass  chains 
under  his  boots.     Later  on,  however,  he  and  his 

84 


FAMILY    HISTORY 

brother  Claud  occupied  the  house  next  to  *'  the 
Park  "  at  Harrow. 

Six  months  after  my  father  came  of  age — after 
a  minority  of  fourteen  years — he  married  Lady 
Louisa  Russell  and  continued  for  some  years  to 
live  at  the  Priory.  This  delightful  place,  how- 
ever, was  within  easy  driving  distance  of  London, 
and  my  father's  numerous  friends  found  the  house 
so  pleasant  to  stay  in,  and  so  difficult  to  say  good- 
bye to,  that,  in  the  end,  he  was  forced,  in  the 
interests  of  self-preservation,  to  sell  the  place 
and  migrate  elsewhere.  All  its  art  treasures 
were  stored  in  the  Pantechnicon  till  such  time  as 
another  permanent  residence  at  a  safer  distance 
from  London  had  been  decided  upon.  This  ideal 
residence  was  never  found.  While  it  was  being 
sought  for,  my  father  found  lodging  for  his  family 
by  occupying  furnished  country  houses — first 
Dale  Park,  then  Brocket,  then  Beaudesert,  and 
lastly  Eastwell.  This  last  was  rented  from  Lord 
Winchilsea  at  the  expiration  of  my  father's  first 
term  of  office  in  Dublin,  and  remained  our  country 
residence  till  he  returned  to  Dublin  for  the  second 
time  in  1874. 

Eastwell  was  not  appreciated  by  the  adults  of 
the  family,  but  my  brother  Freddie  and  I  adored 
it.  The  vastness  of  the  park,  the  solitude  and 
silence  of  its  giant  beech-woods,  and  the  wonderful 
variety  of  its  scenery  presented  us  with  practically 
unlimited  opportunities  for  adventure  and  explora- 
tion. For  the  adults,  however,  its  very  vastness 
was  its  condemnation.     The  house  stands  on  the 

35 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

edge  of  the  park,  and  by  no  means  on  the  most 
attractive  edge.  The  one  and  only  road  through 
the  park  cuts  off  the  thin  sUce  on  which  the  house 
stands.  The  rest  is  out  of  reach  of  ordinary 
mortals.  The  beautiful  stretches  of  wood,  hill 
and  valley  at  the  Chollock  end  were  inaccessible 
to  ladies,  and  only  accessible  to  men  for  whom 
long  walks  over  rough  grass  had  no  terrors. 
There  were,  and  are,  no  paths. 

Distance  meant  nothing,  to  my  brother  and  me 
in  those  schoolboy  days  at  Eastwell.  Our  entire 
time  was  spent  in  long  exploratory  rambles ;  and 
yet,  so  immense  is  the  park  that  we  had  not  yet 
fully  mastered  its  geography  when  we  left  at  the 
end  of  five  years.  The  place  still  holds  very 
cherished  memories  for  us,  even  though  those 
memories  are  nearly  fifty  years  old,  and  twice 
since  we  left  have  my  brother  and  I  journeyed 
down  there  to  revisit  those  old  haunts  of  our 
careless,  tireless  and  intensely  energetic  boyhood. 
Each  visit  has  tended  to  confirm  our  early  recol- 
lections of  the  wonderful  grandeur  and  beauty  of 
the  northern  end  of  the  park.  We  might  also 
add  the  testimony  of  our  very  adult  legs  as  to 
its  immensity. 

So  much  for  our  country  life.  Up  to  my 
twelfth  year  the  London  season  was  spent  at 
Chesterfield  House,  in  those  days  a  very  imposing 
residence.  The  two  colonnades,  which  now  jut  out 
so  ludicrously  at  right  angles  to  the  corners  of  the 
building,  at  that  time  ran  parallel  with  the  front 
of  the  house,  or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  were  a 

36 


FAMILY    HISTORY 

continuation  of  that  front  and  connected  it  on 
one  side  with  the  laundry,  which  stood  where  Lord 
Leconfield's  house  now  stands,  and  on  the  other 
with  the  stables,  the  site  of  which  is  now  covered 
by  No.  1  and  No.  2  South  Audley  Street.  Behind 
was  a  big  square  garden  running  back  to  Chester- 
field Street,  and,  for  the  whole  distance  between 
this  street  and  South  Audley  Street,  the  garden 
wall  dominated  the  pavement  of  Curzon  Street. 
A  hundred  years  earlier,  that  is  to  say  in  1750, 
when  the  house  was  built,  it  stood  in  a  wilderness 
of  waste  lands.  According  to  a  picture  of  that 
date  by  Edwin  Eyres,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
way  of  buildings  between  Chesterfield  House  and 
the  Park.  Stanhope  Street,  South  Audley  Street 
and  Hill  Street  simply  did  not  exist,  and  Curzon 
Street  was  but  a  row  of  low  huts. 

The  great  delight  of  our  small  lives  at  Chester- 
field House  were  the  dinner-parties,  when  the 
footmen  were  dressed  up  in  gorgeous  pink 
uniforms  with  silver  epaulettes,  heavy  silver 
aiguilettes,  white  stockings  and  powdered  hair. 
These  splendid  figures  were  a  never-failing  source 
of  delight  to  our  eyes,  and  when  we  had  inspected 
them  all  at  close  quarters  and  admiringly  fingered 
the  dangling  aiguilettes,  we  would  take  up  our 
position  on  the  big  marble  staircase,  from  which 
point  of  vantage,  if  we  crouched  behind  the 
banisters,  we  could  see  the  entry  of  the  party  into 
the  dining-room  without  being  seen  ourselves. 
None  of  the  guests,  however,  excited  our  admira- 
tion to  the  same  extent  that  the  footmen  did. 

87 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

As  far  as  I  remember,  the  custom  of  dressing 
footmen  up  in  coloured  liveries  for  dinner-parties 
did  not  survive  the  Eighties.  Thereafter  foot- 
men were  degraded  to  dark  knee  breeches  and 
coats,  and  lost  much  of  their  picturesqueness. 
They  retained,  however,  for  many  years  their 
white  stockings  and  powdered  hair. 

A  Court  "  Drawing-Room "  was  even  more 
exciting  than  a  dinner-party,  for  then  the  State 
coach  would  emerge  from  the  stables  in  all  the 
glory  of  its  pink-and-silver  box  trimmings,  its 
pink-and-silver  coachman  in  his  three-cornered 
hat,  and  its  pink-and-silver  footmen  hanging 
ludicrously  on  behind.  The  acrobatic  difficul- 
ties of  these  last  two  were  accentuated  by  the 
presence  in  one  hand  of  a  long  knob-headed  mace 
after  the  pattern  of  a  bandmaster's  baton. 

Another  carriage  little  less  exciting  than  the 
coach  was  the  "  Charriot  "  (pronounced  Charyot). 
The  "  Charriot,"  as  I  remember  it,  was  a  facsimile 
of  the  coach,  except  that  it  was  a  coupe  with  two 
seats  only  and  a  glass  front.  The  other  carriages  in 
the  stables  were  the  "  Clarence,"  a  roomy  closed 
vehicle  upholstered  in  drab  cloth  which  seated 
four  inside;  the  "  Barouche,"  in  which  the  ladies 
took  their  air  in  the  Park;  the  "  Sociable,"  which 
to  my  recollection  looked  exactly  like  the 
Barouche,  but  which,  I  believe,  boasted  some 
subtle  distinction  of  its  own ;  the  "  Victoria,"  and 
my  father's  brougham,  which  was  always  driven 
by  the  second  coachman.  Landaus  had  not  yet 
come  into  vogue  in  those  early  days. 

38 


FAMILY    HISTORY 

I  think  we  were  very  happy  at  Chesterfield 
House.  We  kept  green  frogs  and  silkworms, 
which  we  fed  respectively  on  flies  from  the 
windows  and  on  mulberry  leaves  from  the  tree 
in  the  garden.  The  silkworms  behaved  very  well 
and  made  lovely  little  cocoons  of  silk  for  us. 

In  the  mornings  we  rode  in  Rotten  Row  (it 
was  considered  very  bad  form  in  the  Sixties  to 
talk  of  "  the  Row  "),  and  in  the  afternoons  we 
played  in  Hamilton  Gardens — generally  with  the 
Tankerville  children.  Twice  a  week  we  were 
instructed  in  the  rudiments  of  dancing  by  a  lady 
whom  we  always  addressed  as  (and  whose  name 
we  honestly  believed  to  be)  Muddy  Muddy  Lide, 
which  was  our  nursery-maid's  interpretation  of 
Madame  Adelaide.  She  always  brought  with  her 
two  little  French  girls,  with  whom  we  used,  most 
reluctantly,  to  gyrate  round  our  enormous  school- 
room, while  Muddy  Muddy  Lide  sat  ponderously 
twisted  round  at  the  piano,  and  instructed  us  in 
raucous  tones  over  her  right  shoulder  : 

"  Baisses  les  Spaules,  Frederic.  Glisses  les  pieds, 
Ernestj  au  lieu  de  gigotter  comme  un  saltimhanque. 
Ah!  Mon  Dieu !  Mon  Dieu !  Quels  petits 
chameaux !  " 

Then  my  mother  would  look  in  through  the  door 
and  ask,  full  of  smiling  pride  : 

"  Les  petits  font  de  pr ogres,  Madame  Adelaide  ?  " 

"  Mais  oui,  Madame  la  Duchess e  ;  assurement 
ils  font  de  pr ogres.  Voyez  done  comme  ils  sont 
gracieucc,  tous  les  deux^ 

I  doubt,  however,  if  even  a  maternal  eye  could 

39 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

have  discerned  anything  gracieux  in  our  ungainly 
leaps  round  the  room. 

The  little  French  girls,  as  I  remember,  were 
perfectly  self-possessed,  and  tried  to  enliven  our 
exercise  with  polite  conversational  remarks  to 
which  we,  as  became  uncouth  young  Anglo- 
Saxons,  replied  in  half-shy  and  half-sulky  mono- 
syllables. For  this  lack  of  gallantry  we  could  not 
even  plead  the  excuse  of  unfamiliarity  with  the 
language,  for,  thanks  to  a  succession  of  French 
nursery-maids,  and  a  succession  of  winters  spent 
in  the  south  of  France,  we  could,  when  we  so 
pleased,  gabble  the  language  fluently  enough. 

We  thoroughly  enjoyed  our  rides  in  Rotten 
Row — ^two  small  boys  in  kilts  accompanied  by  an 
immaculate  groom  named  Sam  Dyer,  whose  very 
pleasant  face  and  manners  were  unfortunately 
marred  by  alcoholic  tendencies  which  eventually 
led  to  his  downfall.  Our  joint  stud  consisted  of 
two  Shetland  ponies  named  Poppy  and  Tommy. 
Poppy  was  the  pink  of  respectability  and  always 
behaved  with  decorum,  but  not  so  Tommy,  who 
invariably  shot  his  rider  off  the  moment  we 
reached  the  tan  of  Rotten  Row,  after  which  he 
would  trot  sedately  back  to  the  great  gate  of 
Chesterfield  House  and  there  set  up  a  shrill 
trumpeting  till  the  gate  was  thrown  open  to  him 
by  old  Morley,  our  corpulent  but  faithful  janitor. 
I  think,  in  spite  of  this  bad  behaviour,  that 
Tommy  must  have  had  a  lurking  sense  of  decency 
under  his  shaggy  forelock,  for,  to  the  best  of  my 
recollection,   he  never  attempted  to  get  rid  of 

40 


FAMILY    HISTORY 

either  of  us  till  we  reached  the  soft  tan.  Then 
either  my  brother  or  myself  (we  took  it  in  turns  to 
ride  him)  was  quickly  on  his  back  and  Tommy 
trotted  home.  We  had  not  far  to  fall,  the  tan 
was  soft,  and  Tommy  never  trod  on  us  or  kicked 
us,  so  that,  except  for  the  ignominy  of  it,  we  did 
not  in  the  least  mind  being  kicked  off. 

One  summer  (I  cannot  fix  the  exact  date)  after 
cannily  weighing  the  matter  backwards  and 
forwards  in  my  mind,  I  resolved  on  a  desperate 
plunge,  and  betted  my  brother  six  marbles  that  I 
would  reach  Albert  Gate  on  Tommy's  back  before 
he  did.  After  a  few  minutes  of  cautious  reflec- 
tion, he  closed  with  the  bet,  which  I  am  sorry  to 
say  remained  to  the  end  undecided,  as  neither  of 
us  ever  reached  Albert  Gate  on  Tommy's  back. 
Tommy  saw  to  that.  Finally,  Tommy  was  sold 
as  incorrigible,  and  for  the  future  we  took  alter- 
nate rides  on  Poppy,  to  the  general  disappoint- 
ment, I  have  little  doubt,  of  the  frequenters  of 
Rotten  Row,  to  whom  the  daily  excursion  of  our 
kilted  forms  over  Tommy's  head  must  have  been 
a  familiar  and  exhilarating  sight. 

When  my  father's  lease  of  Chesterfield  House 
was  up,  Mr.  Magniac  bought  the  property  for 
building  purposes  and  we  migrated  to  Hampden 
House,  Green  Street,  which  remained  in  the 
occupation  of  the  family  for  some  fifty  years. 
Curiously  enough,  the  house  was  already  asso- 
ciated with  the  family,  for  it  had  been  the  town 
residence  of  my  great-grandfather,  the  "  Old 
Marquis." 

41 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

In  the  meantime,  while  we  were  being  shuttle- 
cocked  about  from  one  hired  place  to  another, 
Barons  Court,  our  real  home  in  Ulster,  wasted  its 
sweetness  on  the  desert  air,  for  it  was  seldom  that 
the  family  went  near  it.  The  furnished  places  in 
England  condemned  it  to  a  forlorn  grass-widow- 
hood which  it  was  far  from  deserving. 

It  was  not  till  1878 — more  than  sixty  years  after 
he  had  succeeded  to  the  title — that  my  father 
was  at  last  persuaded  to  acknowledge  Barons 
Court  as  his  permanent  country  residence.  By 
that  time  he  was  in  his  seventieth  year,  and  I 
think  his  lifelong  dream  of  "  a  place  in  England  " 
had  grown  faint.  He  felt  himself  too  old  to 
undertake  a  serious  hunt  for  another  furnished 
place  and,  although  one  or  two  were  visited — 
including  Shillinglee,  afterwards  the  home  of  my 
fifth  sister — he  finally  resolved  that,  for  the  rest 
of  his  life.  Barons  Court  should  shelter  the 
family. 

In  those  days,  although  the  gardens,  lakes  and 
park  at  Barons  Court  were,  as  in  my  opinion  they 
still  are,  unrivalled  for  peaceful  beauty,  the  house 
itself  was  severely  bare  of  all  but  the  very  neces- 
saries of  life.  Home-made  furniture,  white- 
painted  and  relieved  by  a  green  line,  was  all  that 
many  of  the  bedrooms  could  boast  of.  Drugget 
carpets  served  in  the  passages  and  stairs,  and 
dimity  curtains  shaded  the  bedroom  windows. 
At  convenient  spots  in  the  long  intricate  passages, 
huge  baize-lined  hampers  acted  as  storage  depots 
for  peat  fuel.     It  was  not  till  the  winter  of  1879 

42 


FAMILY    HISTORY 

that  the  earnest  and  persistent  representations 
of  the  whole  family  prevailed  upon  my  father  to 
beautify  the  house  at  Barons  Court  with  the 
Priory  statues,  books,  pictures  and  furniture 
which  for  so  many  years  had  lain  hidden  in  the 
Pantechnicon. 

From  that  time  on  Barons  Court  became  not  a 
palace  by  any  means,  but  a  respectably  furnished 
house  to  which  guests  might,  without  shame,  be 
invited  to  enjoy  the  very  excellent  woodcock 
shooting,  and  there  my  father  lived  the  greater 
part  of  each  year  till  his  death  six  years  later. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  although  my  father 
never  unbent  towards  the  people  among  whom  he 
spent  these  last  years  of  his  life,  and  invariably 
treated  them  de  haul  en  has,  he  nevertheless 
inspired  them  with  an  unbounded  admiration 
which  very  nearly  approached  worship. 

"  The  Deuk's  a  nice  affable  kind  of  a  man,"  I 
overheard  one  say  of  my  brother. 

"He  is  that,"  replied  his  companion;  "but 
give  me  the  ould  Deuk.  Sure  he'd  look  at  you 
as  though  you  were  the  very  dirt  under  his  feet." 

I  might  add  that  the  actual  phrase  used  was 
"  ould  the  Deuk,"  that  being  the  invariable  form 
of  words  round  Barons  Court,  the  idea  being 
that,  as  one  speaks  of  old  Mr.  Brown  or  old 
Sir  Thomas,  so  he  should  speak  of  old  the  Duke, 
or  old  the  Duchess. 

The  veneration  in  which  my  father  was  held 
by  the  country  people  around  almost  surpassed 
belief.     One    day,    some    little    time    after    my 

43 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

father's  death,  three  of  my  brothers  and  myself 
paid  a  visit  to  an  old  pensioned  retainer  who 
received  us  with  many  manifestations  of  delight. 

"  Sure,"  he  said,  "  it's  the  proud  man  I  am  to 
see  so  many  of  ould  the  Deuk's  ancestors  standing 
round  me  this  day." 

It  was  quite  clear,  in  spite  of  the  slight  mixture 
of  genealogical  terms,  that  our  only  value  in  his 
eyes  lay  in  our  relationship  to  our  father. 

When  the  late  Duke  of  Clarence  visited  my 
father  at  Barons  Court  in  1883,  it  was  found  quite 
impossible  to  make  the  people  realise  that  he  was 
superior  to  my  father  in  rank,  or  to  accord  him 
any  of  the  reverence  due  to  royalty. 

"  There's  but  one  Deuk,"  they  declared  with 
Unitarian  insistence ;  "  there's  others  may  call 
themselves  so,  but  they're  of  no  account."  Shades 
of  Norfolk  and  Buccleuch  ! 


44 


CHAPTER  IV 

BARONS    COURT 

Although,  as  I  have  said  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  Barons  Court  did  not  become  the  per- 
manent family  residence  till  1878,  we  used, 
prior  to  that  date,  to  pay  it  occasional  flying 
visits,  to  which  my  brother  Freddie  and  I  always 
looked  forward  with  feverish  excitement. 

It  was  a  far  cry  to  Barons  Court  in  those  days, 
for  though  the  Irish  Mail  left  Euston  no  later 
than  it  does  to-day,  we  did  not  reach  Newtown 
Stewart  till  3.45  the  following  afternoon,  instead 
of  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  as  at  present. 
During  the  lengthy  passage  of  the  Channel,  my 
brother  and  I  were  always  placed  on  our  backs 
on  the  floor  of  the  ladies'  saloon,  with  a  red  plush 
bolster  under  our  heads.  In  this  position  we 
complacently  chewed  ginger-root,  while  our  nurse 
was  heroically  sick  from  pier  to  pier.  We  were 
both  immovably  good  sailors,  but  I  am  afraid 
we  took  an  unholy  joy  in  the  sufferings  of  our 
fellow-travellers,  without  the  diversion  of  which 
we  should  have  found  the  passage  very  tedious. 
So  greatly  did  we  look  forward  to  the  discomfiture 
of  the  other  occupants  of  the  ladies'  saloon  that, 
the  moment  the  sea  came  in  sight,  we  would  crane 

45 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

our  heads  out  of  the  train  windows  and  dance 
with  deHght  if  the  waves  were  white- crested. 
Inhuman  Httle  brutes  1  I  beUeve,  however,  that 
a  subtle  analysis  of  our  minds  would  have  re- 
vealed the  fact  that  vanity  at  our  own  immunity, 
in  contrast  to  the  others  round  us,  was  at  the 
bottom  of  our  elation.  We  did  not  then  realise 
that  the  majority  of  passengers  are  immune, 
and  that  it  was  only  because  we  were  housed 
with  the  habitual  sufferers  that  we  stood  out 
as  such  heroes.  We  honestly  believed  in  those 
days  that  everyone  on  the  ship  was  sick  except 
ourselves. 

The  short  journey  from  Kingstown  to  Westland 
Row,  the  drive  across  Dublin,  and  the  reception 
by  obsequious  gold-capped  officials  at  Amiens 
Street,  were  all  things  of  unmixed  joy,  but  then 
came  the  interminable  journey  to  Newtown 
Stewart,  which  was  anything  but  a  thing  of  joy. 
We  ate  cold  chicken  and  drank  light  claret 
poured  out  of  wicker- covered  bottles  into  very 
shaky  glasses.  My  brother  and  I  generally 
got  through  a  tin  of  butterscotch  as  well.  But 
even  these  pastimes  did  not  materially  shorten 
the  endless  journey  with  its  long,  purposeless 
waits  at  squalid  little  stations.  When  Omagh 
was  at  length  reached  we  were  in  our  own  country 
and  all  our  weariness  left  us.  The  brown  rushing 
Mourne  and  the  purple  back  of  Bessie  Bell  were 
old  friends,  only  dimly  remembered  perhaps, 
but  still  very  friendly  and  "  homey,"  and  they 
never  left  us  till  the  picturesque  little  town  of 

46 


BARONS    COURT 

Newtown  Stewart  leaped  suddenly  into  full  view 
as  the  train  emerged  from  a  short  tunnel. 

The  whole  of  the  four-mile  drive  from  the 
station  to  the  house  was  vibrant  with  mild 
excitement,  for  the  people,  the  cottages,  the 
fields  and  even  the  gates  were  utterly  different  from 
everything  we  were  accustomed  to  in  England. 
When,  however,  the  carriage  plunged  from  the 
bleak  countryside  into  the  first  of  the  Barons 
Court  woods,  and  the  rabbits  were  seen  scurrying 
away  from  the  sound  of  the  wheels  into  the  bushes, 
our  excitement  passed  beyond  the  mild  stage. 
The  climax  was  reached  when  the  carriage  swept 
round  the  bend  past  the  entrance  lodge,  and  the 
placid  waters  of  the  Lower  Lake  could  be  seen 
stretching  away  up  the  steep  wood-choked  valley 
towards  the  house.  Three  successive  buck-jumps 
from  the  carriage  followed  as  we  crossed  three 
steeply-bridged  burns,  and  then  the  round  island 
of  Philip  McHugh,  with  its  encircling  cloud  of 
cawing  rooks,  hove  in  sight.  All  these  things, 
until  seen,  were  but  dim  memories  in  our  child 
minds,  confused  as  they  were  by  the  quick  changes 
of  our  nomad  existence,  but  the  moment  they 
were  sighted  they  became  intensely  familiar  and 
filled  us  with  an  entrancing  sense  of  home. 

On  the  whole,  however,  such  of  our  nursery 
days  as  were  spent  at  Barons  Court  were  not 
exciting  and  have  left  but  a  blunt  impression. 
We  not  only  never  left  the  park,  but  our  exercise 
ground,  as  far  as  I  remember,  never  extended 
beyond   the   gardens   and   the   adjacent   Middle 

47 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Lake,  so  that  the  greater  part  of  the  park  was 
to  us,  at  that  age,  unexplored  ground. 

I  remember  one  very  hard  winter  when  the 
Middle  Lake  was  so  hard  frozen  that  carts  from 
the  home  farm  crossed  it  and  a  huge  bonfire 
was  lighted  in  the  centre. 

Through  that  same  winter  my  brother  and  I 
lodged  and  boarded  a  tortoiseshell  butterfly 
who  answered,  or  was  supposed  to  answer, 
to  the  name  of  "  Butty."  Butty  was  first  caught 
in  late  autumn  flapping  torpidly  on  a  window- 
frame,  and,  in  pity  of  his  plight,  we  built  him  a 
very  handsome  house  with  our  box  of  wooden 
bricks.  He  had  a  drawing-room  and  dining- 
room,  with  a  fine,  two-flight  staircase  leading 
up  to  his  bedroom.  Every  evening,  before  we 
retired  for  the  night.  Butty  was  helped  up  the 
staircase  to  his  bedroom  with  a  pencil,  to  which 
he  obligingly  clung.  Next  morning  we  helped 
him  down  again  to  his  dining-room,  where  he 
had  his  breakfast  of  sugar  and  water.  He  was 
not  very  active,  but  he  lived  all  through  the 
winter,  and  when  the  spring  sunshine  came,  we 
let  him  fly  away.  He  must  have  had  some  fine 
tales  to  tell  to  the  next  generation. 

Nursery  days  were  followed  by  days  of  governess 
control,  and  our  knowledge  of  Barons  Court 
became  a  little  more  extended,  but  not  by  much. 
The  two  home  farms  and  our  model  villages  of 
Letterbin  and  Ballyrennan  were  the  only  places 
outside  the  confines  of  the  park  proper  that  our 
duties  or  our  pleasures  ever  led  us  to.     The  expedi- 

48 


BARONS    COURT 

tions  to  the  villages  had  no  charm  for  us,  for  they 
were  generally  of  a  charitable  nature  and  asso- 
ciated with  the  carriage  of  large  wicker- covered 
jam-pots  filled  with  jelly,  puddings  or  soup. 
The  home  farms  were  .more  interesting,  for  each 
boasted  a  water-race,  a  mill-wheel  and  fascinating 
sluice-gates  which  could  be  raised  or  lowered 
with  most  exciting  results.  We  generally  left 
the  farms  pleasantly  wet  from  head  to  foot. 

On  one  historic  occasion  I  remember,  in  those 
governess  days,  we  made  the  ascent  of  Bessie 
Bell,  the  mountain  which  rises  behind  the  house 
on  the  east  side.  The  back  of  the  journey  was 
broken  by  means  of  "  outside  "  cars,  but  the  last 
stages,  up  to  the  heather-crowned  summit,  had 
to  be  done  on  foot.  I  remember  that  all  who  took 
part  in  the  expedition  talked  for  days  after  as 
though  they  had  scaled  Mount  Everest  or,  at 
any  rate,  the  Matterhorn,  and  my  pride  at  having 
been  one  of  the  party  was  unbounded.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  Bessie  Bell  is  a  round-topped 
hill  whose  summit  is  only  1400  feet  above  sea 
level  and  1200  above  Barons  Court  House. 

The  Bessie  Bell  episode  stood  out  in  those  days 
because  it  was  one  of  the  few  occasions  on  which 
we  left  the  beaten  track  of  our  daily  exercise. 
Victorian  governesses  were  not  adventurous. 
Excursions  beyond  the  margins  of  gravel  highways 
held  vague  terrors  for  them.  They  meant,  for 
one  thing,  damp  shoes,  which  were  known  to 
be  the  root  of  all  evil,  and  torn  clothes,  which 
were  a  scandal  to  the  well-regulated;    so  off  the 

E  49 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

footpaths  and  high  roads  we  were  never  allowed 
to  stray.  The  lakes,  too,  at  which  we  looked 
from  a  distance  with  such  longing  eyes,  had 
nameless  terrors  for  our  guardians,  as  being 
bottomless  pits  into  which  small  charges  suddenly 
disappeared  for  ever.  So  these,  too,  were  given 
a  wide  berth.  It  was  only  when  Harrow  life 
began,  and  we  experienced  that  glorious  relief 
from  constant  supervision  which  is  the  privilege 
of  the  public-school  boy,  that  my  brother  and  I 
began  to  realise  the  unlimited  possibilities  for 
enjoyment  that  Barons  Court  Park  offered. 
The  park  is  long  and  narrow  and  fills  the  bottom 
of  a  valley,  the  steep  sides  of  which  are  thickly 
wooded  with  fine  timber.  At  the  south  end  a 
clear  brown  stream,  about  six  feet  wide  and  one 
foot  deep,  burrows  its  way  into  the  park  under 
an  arched  stone  bridge.  After  a  tranquil  and 
uneventful  course  of  some  500  yards  it  broadens 
out  into  the  Upper  Lake,  a  small  but  very  lovely 
piece  of  water,  fringed  by  yellow  reeds  with  high 
woods  behind.  At  the  foot  of  the  Upper  Lake 
are  some  very  massive  sluice-gates  through  which 
the  clear  brown  stream,  in  enhanced  volume, 
continues  its  journey  towards  the  sea.  It  is 
by  now  some  ten  feet  in  width,  and  for  half  a 
mile  wends  its  way  through  the  only  flat  ground 
in  the  park,  passing  under  three  bridges  of  wood 
and  stone,  and  gathering  strength  as  it  goes, 
till  it  reaches  the  Middle  Lake.  The  Middle 
Lake  (half  a  mile  long)  and  the  Lower  Lake 
(three-quarters  of  a  mile  long)  are  really  one  sheet 

50 


BARONS    COURT 

of  water,  for  they  are  on  the  same  level,  but 
they  are  separated  by  a  long  narrow  channel 
spanned  by  a  fine  stone  bridge.  The  terraced 
garden  runs  down  from  the  house  to  the  edge 
of  the  Middle  Lake,  and  there,  concealed  in  a 
large  clump  of  rhododendrons,  stands  the  boat- 
house,  the  starting-point  of  almost  all  our  school- 
boy expeditions.  The  boat-house  at  Barons 
Court  differs  from  all  other  private  boat-houses 
that  I  have  seen  in  that  it  is  high  and  dry  on  land 
and  has  no  boats  in  it.  This  is,  perhaps,  because 
it  is  in  Ireland.  All  the  boats  are  on  the  placid 
waters  of  the  lake,  either  moored  alongside  the 
miniature  wooden  pier  which  juts  out  from  the 
edge  of  the  bulrushes,  or  else  dancing  at  anchor 
some  thirty  yards  out  with  the  wavelets  lapping 
musically  against  their  sides.  The  boat-house 
itself  has  a  peculiar  and  entrancing  smell  com- 
posed, in  equal  parts,  of  tar,  paint  and  fish-scales. 
It  contains  an  untidy  but  fascinating  miscellany 
of  coracles,  paddles,  landing-nets,  fishing-rods, 
trimmers,  eel-pots,  bait-cans,  etc.,  which,  like 
Tennyson's  stream,  go  on  for  ever,  while  one 
generation  after  another  of  those  who  use  them 
passes  away.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  boats. 
When  we  were  boys,  the  fleet  consisted  of  three 
ancient  but  smartly-painted  rowing-boats,  two 
flat-bottomed  home-made  boats,  a  sailing-boat 
(which  was  never  used)  known  as  "  Crazy  Jane," 
a  canoe  and  four  coracles.  Of  this  curious 
assortment  our  favourite,  by  immeasurable 
distance,    was   a   roomy   craft   which    bore   the 

51 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

traditional  name  of  "  The  Ladies'  Boat."  The 
Ladies'  Boat  was  a  short  tubby  boat  in  which 
one  could  with  safety  have  danced  a  fandango. 
At  the  same  time  she  was  so  light,  by  reason 
of  extreme  age  (and  rottenness)  that  she  would 
skim  over  the  water  without  any  effort  on  the 
part  of  the  rower  in  any  way  commensurate 
with  her  size.  Her  shortness  too  and  her  light 
draught  made  her  particularly  handy  for  working 
up  the  winding  creeks  that  in  places  cut  through 
the  reeds,  when  we  were  so  minded,  so  that  one 
may  safely  say  that  practically  the  whole  of 
our  life  on  the  Barons  Court  lakes  was  spent 
in  the  Ladies'  Boat.  This  wonderful  old  boat 
was,  even  in  those  days,  reputed  to  be  sixty 
years  old,  having  been  built  for  my  father  on 
Loch  Laggan  in  Inverness-shire;  and  she  is  still 
going  to  this  day,  looking  in  her  annual  coat  of 
oak-grained  paint  as  smart  and  spruce  as  the 
day  she  was  launched,  and  gaining  every  year 
in  lightness  and  handiness. 

In  this  old  boat,  many  years  ago,  my  brother 
and  I  first  probed  the  hitherto  forbidden  mysteries 
of  the  Middle  and  Lower  Lakes.  We  pushed  up 
the  creeks  formed  by  the  confluent  burns,  through 
the  long  protecting  screens  of  yellow  reeds  and 
bulrushes;  we  explored  the  island,  with  its 
ruined  castle  and  historical  legends,  and  we 
christened  with  high-sounding  names  all  the  little 
landing-piers,  formed  out  of  large,  loose,  fiat 
stones  which  my  father  had  caused  to  be  built 
here  and  there  about  the  lakes.     We  took,  in 

52 


BARONS    COURT 

fact,  forcible  possession  of  the  lakes,  the  boats 
and  boat-house,  and  of  Hugh  Gormley,  who  was 
the  official  guardian  of  all  these  things.  Most 
of  our  time  during  the  holidays  was  spent  on 
the  water.  We  fished  for  pike  to  a  certain  extent 
with  trimmer  and  rod,  but  our  main  interest 
was  in  exploration  and  navigation  rather  than  in 
sport.  After  peopling  the  island  and  various 
parts  of  the  shore  with  imaginary  inhabitants, 
we  instituted  a  fast  but  slightly-irregular  mail- 
service  between  the  landing-piers  afore-mentioned, 
each  stage  having  to  be  covered  in  a  scheduled 
time  which  left  little  scope  for  resting  on  one's 
oars.  In  order  to  prevent  the  engines  from  becom- 
ing utterly  exhausted  under  this  high  pressure 
it  was  always  arranged  that  they  and  the  steering 
gear  should  change  places  between  each  stage. 
When  a  strong  sou' -wester  blew  straight  down 
the  lakes,  the  delivery  of  mails  on  the  return 
journey  was  indefinitely  postponed,  for  our  prac- 
tice was  to  leave  the  boat  at  the  foot  of  the  Lower 
Lake  till  the  wind  changed,  or  for  poor  Gormley 
to  row  laboriously  back  against  wind  and  wave. 
Occasionally  the  engine  and  steering  depart- 
ments failed  to  work  in  harmony,  and,  when  this 
happened,  there  was  a  temporary  dislocation 
of  the  mail-service.  On  one  occasion,  as  the 
result  of  a  difference  of  opinion  between  the  two 
departments,  a  short  but  lively  naval  engagement 
took  place  on  the  Lower  Lake,  but  luckily  without 
serious  casualties  to  either  side.  Our  most 
historic  battle,  however,  occurred  one  morning 

53 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

at  the  boat-house,  on  dry  land.  My  brother 
had  been  running  the  mail-service  by  himself, 
and,  having  completed  the  grand  tour  in  scheduled 
time,  was  proudly  approaching  the  home  station. 
In  a  desire  to  help  him  to  manoeuvre  the  boat 
alongside  the  little  pier,  I  tried  to  grapple  one 
of  the  rowlocks  with  a  boat-hook,  but  in  so  doing 
inadvertently  poked  the  point  of  the  boat-hook 
through  my  brother's  cheek.  In  quite  unneces- 
sary vexation  at  this  trivial  accident  he  sprang 
ashore  and,  seizing  a  sickle  lashed  to  a  pole  which 
was  conveniently  leaning  against  a  tree,  he  made 
a  retaliatory  sweep  at  my  legs.  With  a  con- 
vulsive bound  in  the  air  I  avoided  the  blow, 
and,  having  thus  saved  my  legs,  I  made  use  of 
them  to  run  with  all  my  powers  up  to  the  house, 
pursued  by  my  bleeding  and  infuriated  brother. 
Luckily  he  was  hampered  by  his  weapon,  whose 
mission  in  times  of  peace  was  to  cut  weeds, 
and  I  reached  the  shelter  of  the  house  un wounded. 
Half  an  hour  after  we  were  as  good  friends  as 
ever,  although  for  many  years  to  come  there 
was  hot  argument  between  us  as  to  who  had 
won  the  battle.  He  claimed  the  victory  because 
he  had  put  the  opposing  force  to  flight;  whereas 
my  argument  was  that  the  only  casualties  were 
on  his  side,  and  that  mine  was  merely  a  strategic 
retirement  carried  out  in  good  order  and  without 
loss.  The  point  is  still  in  dispute  to  this  very  day. 
One  of  the  first  and  most  gratifying  discoveries 
of  our  enlarged  outlook  was  that  no  fewer  than  six- 
teen bums,  great  and  small,  tumbled  down  to 

54 


BARONS    COURT 

the  lower  waters  of  the  lakes  through  the  park 
woods.  Some  of  these  burns  were  full  of  unsus- 
pected beauties  and  attractions — rocky  pools, 
waterfalls  and  so  on.  The  largest  and  most 
picturesque  was  unfortunately  afflicted  by  so 
offensive  a  smell  that  we  gave  it  the  name  of 
Cholera  Burn.  It  was  some  years  later  before 
we  learned  that  the  cause  of  the  smell  was  that 
the  burn,  in  its  upper  reaches,  passes  through 
the  precincts  of  the  home  farm.  All  these  sixteen 
burns,  each  of  which  had  its  peculiar  character- 
istics, we  got  to  know  by  heart.  We  grew  to 
learn  every  detail  of  their  windings,  their  pools, 
their  rapids  and  their  shallows,  and  in  this  know- 
ledge believed  that  we  were  alone — and  probably 
with  justice.  Adults  do  not  concern  themselves 
with  a  minute  survey  of  petty  burns.  But  to  us 
they  were  a  revelation  and  a  ceaseless  joy.  One 
of  our  favourite  amusements  was  to  build  an 
artificial  dam  below  some  deep  pool  and  then, 
having  amassed  a  mighty  reservoir,  to  kick  the 
dam  away  and  accompany  the  released  rush  of 
water  the  whole  way  down  till  it  became  merged 
in  the  greater  vohime  below. 

Although  all  the  lakes  had  a  charm  for  us,  the 
Lower  Lake  was  always  our  favourite.  This 
is  an  exceptionally  beautiful  piece  of  water  and 
with  a  distinctive  character  of  its  own,  for,  though 
double  the  size  of  the  Middle  Lake,  its  waters 
are  much  calmer.  The  thickly-wooded  hills 
which  fence  it  in  tend  to  keep  all  ruffling  breezes 
from   its   surface.     Only   the    south-west   wind, 

55 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

which  blows  straight  down  its  length,  can  raise 
its  waters  into  waves,  and  very  big  waves  these 
sometimes  are,  crested  with  foam.  But,  with 
all  other  winds,  its  waters  are  like  glass,  with 
only  the  shadow  of  an  occasional  squall  flitting 
across  its  surface. 

In  late  October,  when  the  surrounding  woods, 
reflected  in  the  water,  have  taken  on  their 
autumn  tints,  the  beauty  of  the  Lower  Lake  has 
to  be  seen  to  be  believed.  From  the  round- 
topped,  alder-clad  island  in  the  centre,  with  its 
faithful  reproduction  in  the  glassy  water,  and 
from  the  yellow  reeds  that  fringe  the  shore  to 
the  purple  crest  of  Bessie  Bell  showing  above  the 
tree-tops,  everything  seems  to  point  to  this  one 
spot  as  the  chosen  home  of  eternal  peacefulness 
and  beauty. 

Barons  Court,  in  our  schoolboy  days,  was  an 
unpretentious  place,  but  I  think  on  that  account 
all  the  more  adored  by  my  brother  and  myself. 
We  honestly  believed  that  there  was  no  place 
in  the  world  to  compare  with  it,  either  in  natural 
beauty  or  as  a  playground.  We  went  there 
very  seldom  in  those  days  and  almost  always 
in  the  spring,  viz.  the  Easter  holidays.  The 
winter  climate  was  considered  too  damp  and  the 
summer  climate  too  stuffy.  My  dreams  of  those 
halcyon  days  are  therefore  always  associated 
with  the  month  of  April,  and  with  daffodils, 
primroses,  short  mossy  turf,  cawing  rooks  and 
baby  rabbits.  The  window  of  the  bedroom  I 
occupied  looked  out  upon  a  stretch  of  smooth 

56 


BARONS    COURT 

flat  grass  to  the  north  of  the  house,  beyond  which 
a  long  sHce  of  the  Lower  Lake  showed  up  through 
a  gap  in  the  pine  trees.  On  this  stretch  of  smooth 
flat  grass,  in  the  early  morning  hours,  proud 
cock  pheasants  would  strut  about  in  the  dew 
below  my  window  and  wake  me  with  their 
enchanting  spring  crow.  Even  now  the  crow 
of  a  cock  pheasant  takes  me  back  with  a  rush 
to  those  far-off  days  and  to  the  unbelievable 
gladness  that  filled  my  soul  when,  on  the  first 
day  of  the  holidays,  I  leaned  out  of  my  window 
and  sucked  in  the  fresh  morning  air  with  its  faint 
flavour  of  peat  smoke.  That  room  is  now  a 
changed  thing,  garnished  and  swept  and  decked 
out  with  smart  trappings.  It  must  always  remain 
a  delightful  room  because  of  its  position  and  the 
view  that  it  commands,  but,  in  my  eyes,  the  better 
part  of  its  glory  left  it  when  the  white-painted 
furniture,  tartan  table-cloth  and  worn  drugget 
carpet  gave  way  to  its  present  splendour.  Boys, 
I  think,  are  rigidly  conservative  and  bitterly 
resent  the  removal  of  old  landmarks  with  sacred 
associations.     I  know  we  did. 

In  the  halcyon  days  the  garden  precincts  were 
enclosed  by  a  four-foot  fence  of  flat  pointed 
palisades,  home-made  and  painted  a  vivid  green. 
One  of  the  gates  through  this  fence  was  almost 
under  my  window.  It  opened  with  a  creak  and 
shut  with  a  clang,  and  it  made  music  to  my  ears 
sweeter  than  any  opera,  and  almost  as  sweet  as 
the  crow  of  the  cock  pheasants,  or  as  the  more 
distant  call  of  the  water-hens  from  the  edge  of 

57 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

the  lake.  When  this  fence  was  replaced  by  a 
modern  wire  fence  which  took  in  a  great  deal 
more  ground,  my  brother  and  I  felt  the  blow  most 
keenly.  It  took  us  several  years  to  get  accustomed 
to  the  new  fence  with  its  dull,  wrought-iron  gates 
which  neither  creaked  nor  clanked. 

In  the  matter  of  boats  we  were  even  more 
conservative.  My  father  bought  a  brand-new 
blue  boat  from  the  Thames,  very  smart  and  very 
superior,  and  proudly  launched  it  on  the  Middle 
Lake,  but,  from  the  very  first,  my  brother  and  I 
turned  the  eye  of  cold  disapproval  on  it.  It  was 
an  interloper  and  we  would  have  none  of  it.  Our 
old  favourites  were  all  painted  in  grained  oak 
with  a  green  line  round.  The  colour  of  the  new 
boat  was  voted  a  jarring  note.  It  was  moored 
alongside  the  little  wooden  pier  in  a  tempting 
situation,  but  on  the  other  side  of  the  pier,  next 
the  bulrushes,  lay  the  Ladies'  Boat,  in  the  berth 
which  had  now  been  hers  for  thirty  years,  and, 
where  these  two  were  in  rivalry,  there  could  be 
but  one  issue.  The  blue  boat's  life  was  a  dull 
one. 

In  due  course  came  the  inevitable  break-up. 
My  brother  left  Harrow  and  went  to  France  in 
preparation  for  the  Diplomatic  Service,  and 
thenceforward  my  holidays  were  spent  alone. 
It  was  not  the  same  thing.  The  gingerbread 
was  there  but  the  gilt  was  off  it.  I  am  not  ashamed 
to  say  that,  in  all  our  boyish  adventures  and 
enterprises,  his  was  the  master  mind.  He  had, 
of  course,  the  advantage  of  two  years  over  me, 

58 


BARONS    COURT 

but,  altogether  apart  from  this,  he  had  an  inven- 
tive genius  which  was  never  at  rest  and  which, 
for  originahty  of  outlook,  I  have  never  known 
equalled. 

All  our  undertakings  were  of  the  most  innocent 
and  childish  nature,  and  were  never,  I  think,  in 
any  way  malicious,  but  it  must  be  owned  that 
we  had  little  respect  for  the  intrinsic  value  of 
property,  so  long  as  it  suited  the  purpose  for 
which  we  required  it.  I  remember,  on  one  occa- 
sion, when  a  south-west  gale  was  blowing,  my 
mother,  in  hopes  of  putting  dangerous  enter- 
prises out  of  our  reach,  had  ordered  the  boat- 
house,  which  contained  all  the  sails  and  masts 
for  the  rowing-boats,  to  be  locked  up.  We  had 
no  suspicion  whatever  of  why  the  boat-house 
had  been  locked  up,  but,  feeling  that  it  would 
be  a  pity  to  waste  such  a  splendid  wind,  we  wan- 
dered up  to  the  house  in  search  of  something 
which  would  take  the  place  of  the  regular  sails. 
On  a  table  in  one  of  the  lobbies  we  found  a  shawl 
which  seemed  to  have  been  made  specially  for 
the  purpose,  for  it  was  of  very  considerable  size, 
wonderfully  soft,  and  so  flexible  that  it  was 
easily  knotted  round  the  billiard-cue  which  we 
requisitioned  to  act  as  mast. 

The  combination  of  cue  and  shawl  proved  a 
colossal  success.  We  flew  before  the  wind  from 
the  head  of  the  Middle  Lake  to  the  foot  of  the 
Lower  Lake,  with  the  shawl  bellying  gallantly 
in  the  wind  and  the  cue  bent  like  a  bow.  At 
the  foot  of  the  Lower  Lake,  as  may  be  supposed, 

59 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

we  left  the  Ladies'  Boat,  either  for  the  wind  to 
change  or  for  Gormley  to  bring  back,  and,  with 
mast  and  sail  in  hand,  walked  proudly  back  to 
the  house,  highly  pleased  with  ourselves.  Just 
opposite  the  bathing-house  we  met  our  mother, 
who,  with  a  cry  of  horror,  pounced  upon  our  late 
sail  and  examined  it  with  anxious  eyes  for  holes. 
It  turned  out  to  be  a  priceless  Rumporchuddah 
shawl,  so  marvellously  fine  that,  in  spite  of  its 
size,  it  could  be  passed  through  a  wedding  ring. 
We  listened  to  a  recital  of  its  virtues  without 
enthusiasm,  and  were  a  good  deal  surprised  that 
our  mother  showed  little  interest  when  we  added 
a  testimonial  to  the  effect  that  it  was  the  best 
improvised  sail  we  had  yet  come  across.  She 
took  very  good  care,  however,  that  we  should 
not  come  across  it  again. 

After  my  brother  Freddie  had  gone  to  France, 
my  school  holidays,  whether  spent  at  Barons 
Court  or  elsewhere,  took  on  a  different  character. 
Pursuits  which  had  thrilled  when  there  were  two 
of  us,  lost  their  zest  when  I  was  alone.  In  self- 
defence  I  had  to  fall  back  on  sport,  in  which  we 
had  so  far  taken  but  little  interest.  By  the  time 
I,  too,  had  left  Harrow  and  joined  the  army. 
Barons  Court  had  become  our  permanent  residence 
and  all  my  long  leave  was  spent  there,  but  the 
golden  epoch  was  closed.  The  call  of  the  lakes 
was  still  very  strong,  and  much  of  my  time  was 
devoted  to  them,  but  the  official  sailings  of  the 
Ladies'  Boat  were  necessarily  abandoned;  partly 
on  account  of  the  loss  of  dignity  which  they 

60 


BARONS    COURT 

would  have  entailed  on  an  officer  in  H.M.  army, 
but  chiefly,  I  think,  because  I  was  alone.  I  took 
to  prowling  about  with  a  gun  in  search  of  pigeons, 
wild-duck  or  snipe — sometimes  alone  and  some- 
times in  company  with  old  Taylor,  the  Scotch 
head-keeper,  than  whom  no  better  companion 
on  such  expeditions  ever  lived. 

Taylor  had  a  genius  for  tackling  difficult 
situations  which  was  never  at  fault  and  which 
always  excited  my  admiration.  On  one  occasion, 
when  the  snow  was  lying  thick  upon  the  ground,  he 
and  I  had  been  shooting  some  little  outlying  bogs 
and  strips  of  wood  beyond  Crockfad.  In  the 
late  evening,  in  a  very  dim  light,  a  woodcock 
was  flushed  from  a  little  gorse  covert  and  flew 
very  low  across  a  field  close  to  a  farm-house.  I 
fired  at  it  and  missed  it,  but  killed  a  very  fine 
white  goose  which  I  had  not  noticed  in  the  snow. 
There  were  about  fifteen  geese  in  the  flock, 
and  it  was  a  curious  sight  to  see  them  form  up 
in  a  perfect  circle  round  their  fallen  comrade 
and,  with  necks  outstretched,  "  keen  "  a  kind  of 
cackling  lament  over  him.  I  was  greatly  dis- 
tressed over  the  accident  and  suggested  finding 
out  the  market  price  of  the  bird  and  paying  for 
it  then  and  there;  but  Taylor  would  have  none 
of  it.  "  We'll  just  give  it  the  man  in  a  preesent," 
he  said  sturdily  and,  seizing  the  bird  by  the  neck, 
strode  up  to  the  door  of  the  farm-house.  In 
response  to  a  vigorous  knock,  the  farmer,  a  man 
named  Davidson,  opened  the  door.  "  His  lord- 
ship's compliments,"  said  Taylor,  "  and  he'd  be 

61 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

verra  pleased  if  you'd  accept  a  preesent  of  this 
fine  goose  which  he  has  just  shot  ";  with  which 
remark  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  uncon- 
cernedly away,  leaving  the  dead  bird  in  its 
astonished  owner's  hand.  I  never  learned 
whether  further  restitution  was  made  by  the 
Estate,  but  the  probability  is  that  this  was  so. 

Taylor  and  I  and  the  second  keeper,  Porter 
Adams,  used  to  make  long  expeditions  in  search 
of  very  small  bags,  for  all  the  coverts  close  at 
hand  were  of  course  reserved  for  the  big  shoots 
and  closed  to  my  forays.  I  could  never  under- 
stand why  Taylor,  who  was  thirty  years  older 
than  myself  and  not  unacquainted  with  rheuma- 
tism, showed  so  little  enthusiasm  over  these  long, 
wet,  and  rather  profitless  days.  There  was  a 
certain  beat  known  as  "  The  Grange,"  fifteen 
miles  off  on  the  Foyle,  which  was  his  pet  aversion, 
as  we  had  to  wade  all  day  in  wet  slosh  up  to  the 
knees.  The  place,  however,  was  alive  with  snipe, 
and  legends  of  great  bags  made  there  in  old  days 
filled  me  with  ambitious  hopes  which  over-ruled 
all  poor  Taylor's  protests. 

My  hopes  were  never  realised.  The  first  time 
I  went  there,  snipe  rose  at  every  step,  but  almost 
invariably  well  out  of  shot.  A  network  of  foot- 
prints in  the  marshes  and  many  quite  fresh 
cartridge  cases  strewn  about  made  it  quite  clear 
that,  though  the  place  was  supposed  to  be  strictly 
preserved,  I  was  by  no  means  the  first  visitor 
that  year. 

"  Brogan,"  I  remarked  to  the  local  watcher, 

62 


BARONS    COURT 

as  a  cloud  of  snipe  rose  a  hundred  yards  off, 
"  the  snipe  seem  very  wild." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  the  old  scoundrel,  without 
a  moment's  hesitation,  "  the  birds  is  young  yet, 
and  not  used  to  the  sound  of  a  gun.  If  you  were 
to  come  in  a  month's  time,  now,  you'd  have  a 
far  better  chance." 

"  Well,"  I  replied,  "  if  the  sound  of  the  gun 
makes  them  tame,  in  a  month's  time  they  should 
certainly  lie  nearly  as  well  as  you  do,  Brogan." 

"  They  should  indeed,  my  lord,"  he  replied, 
quite  unabashed;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
think  my  witticism  missed  its  mark,  for,  though 
the  natives  say  many  things  that  make  one  laugh, 
they  are  not  always  quick  to  take  English  forms 
of  humour. 

When  the  month  of  October  was  reached,  we 
used  to  go  down  almost  every  day  to  the  River 
Mourne  just  below  its  junction  with  the  Derg, 
three  miles  from  Barons  Court.  The  fishing 
at  that  time  of  year  was  by  no  means  bad,  but 
the  fish  which  we  caught  were  not  good  eating, 
being  flabby  and  dark-coloured  owing  to  the 
flax-water.  Some  were  almost  repulsive  in 
appearance.  One  of  the  worst  and  reddest- 
looking  monsters  that  I  ever  saw  caught  met 
its  fate  in  the  following  way.  Several  of  us 
had  been  flogging  the  water  all  day  without 
the  slightest  response  on  the  part  of  the  fish. 
Towards  evening,  the  late  Lord  Hillingdon  (grand- 
father to  the  present  peer)  drove  out  from  Barons 
Court  to  see  what  success  we  had  met  with.     He 

63 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

found  us  lazy  and  despondent,  and  the  rods 
lying  inactive  on  the  bank.  As  he  had  never 
fished  for  salmon,  he  was  very  anxious  to  try 
his  hand,  and  we  accordingly  launched  him  in 
the  boat  with  old  Alec  McBay  at  the  oars.  All 
Lord  Hillingdon's  previous  fishing  experiences 
had  been  with  a  worm  and  float,  and,  knowing 
no  other  way  of  angling,  he  dangled  the  fly  in 
the  water  with  a  very  short  line,  exactly  as  if 
he  were  fishing  for  perch.  Smiles  of  derision 
had  hardly  formed  on  our  lips  before  a  large 
salmon  leaped  from  the  water,  engulfed  the 
dangling  fly  and  careered  gaily  with  it  down  the 
river.  The  excitement  both  in  the  boat  and  on 
shore  now  became  intense,  and  when,  after  a 
short  but  fierce  struggle,  the  fish  was  finally 
brought  to  shore,  congratulations  were  showered 
on  the  novice  who  had  so  signally  put  to  shame 
all  the  expert  fishermen. 

The  fish  was  a  sixteen-pound  male  fish,  bright 
red  and  of  repulsive  appearance.  Lord  Hilling- 
don,  however,  could  see  nothing  that  was  not 
beautiful  in  it  and,  in  the  pride  of  conquest, 
insisted  on  packing  off  his  trophy  then  and  there 
to  the  clerks  in  his  London  bank,  who,  as  in  duty 
bound,  ate  it  and  were,  I  believe,  very  ill  for  many 
days  after. 

The  two  watchers  on  the  river  at  that  time 
were  Alec  McBay  and  Paddy  McAnany.  What 
Alec  McBay's  real  name  was — whether  Macbeth 
or  McVeagh— I  have  never  learned.  Probably 
it  was  Macbeth,  for  McVeagh  is  an  essentially 

64 


BARONS    COURT 

Catholic  name  and  Alec  was  a  devout  Orangeman ; 
but  McBay  was  the  name  by  which  he  was  known 
and  the  name  to  which  he  answered.  McBay's 
house  stood  just  above  the  pool  known  as  "  The 
Feddens,"  and  his  housekeeping  was  done  for 
him  by  his  two  young  daughters — very  decent 
and  respectable-looking  girls,  but  with  a  startling 
vocabulary  at  their  command.  One  day  I  caught 
a  very  big  fish  in  the  Feddens,  which  was  laid 
out  for  admiration  on  the  turf  just  below  McBay's 
house.  Presently  out  came  the  two  girls,  and 
for  some  minutes  they  contemplated  the  fish  in 
silence.    At  last  the  elder  one  spoke. 

"  Well,  if  that's  not  the  biggest  ould  thief 
I've  seen  pulled  out  of  the  Feddens  for  many 
a  long  day,"  she  remarked  calmly;  only  "  thief  " 
was  not  the  word  she  used. 

"  He  is  that,"  the  younger  sister  agreed,  "  and 
he's  well  out  of  that,  anyway,  the  ould  thief  " ; 
only,  once  again,  the  word  used  was  not  "  thief." 

After  these  few  preliminary  remarks,  the  two 
sisters  fairly  let  themselves  go,  and  my  astonished 
ears  were  assailed  by  such  a  string  of  terms 
impeaching  the  dead  fish's  morals  and  ancestry 
as  I  had  certainly  never,  up  to  that  time,  asso- 
ciated with  maiden  lips.  The  extreme  respecta- 
bility in  manner  and  appearance  of  the  two 
damsels  and  their  calm  demeanour  throughout 
increased  the  amazement  with  which  I  listened 
to  this  unprovoked  outburst. 

The  practice  of  showering  abuse  upon  the 
victim  of  one's  gun  or  one's  rod  is  a  common 

F  65 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

one  in  Ireland  and  is,  I  believe,  intended  as  a 
slanting  compliment  to  the  sportsman.  The 
greater  the  villainies  which  can  be  attributed 
to  a  dead  grouse  or  a  dead  salmon,  the  greater 
the  glory  of  the  hero  who  has  slain  him. 

Paddy  McAnany  was,  of  course,  a  Roman 
Catholic,  as  his  name  indicates,  but  he  and  Alec 
McBay,  in  spite  of  religious  and  political  differ- 
ences, were  in  reality  very  staunch  friends. 
Occasionally,  however,  they  would  indulge  in  a 
little  good-humoured  banter  on  the  subject  of 
their  differences. 

"  I  know  right  well  what  an  Orange  meeting 
is,"  Paddy  said  to  the  other  one  day;  "you 
all  sit  drinking  round  a  table  and  shout  '  To  hell 
with  the  Pope  '  till  you're  all  so  drunk  you  can't 
shout  any  more,  and  then  the  devil  comes  along 
and  wheels  you  all  home  in  his  barrow." 

"  And  that's  no  more  than  the  truth,"  Alec 
said,  laughing,  "  and  'twas  only  the  other  night, 
as  he  was  wheeling  me  home,  that  he  whispered 
in  my  ear  what  good  friends  you  and  he  was, 
Paddy,  and  of  the  snug  place  he's  keeping  for 
you  down  there." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  wish  to  be  parted  from  you. 
Alec,  anyway,"  Paddy  retorted  gravely. 

The  rest  of  us  never  touched  upon  the  subject 
of  politics  with  our  various  Roman  Catholic 
henchmen,  nor,  at  election  times,  did  we  ever 
canvass  them.  I  believe  they  all  voted  against 
us,  nor  indeed  did  they  ever  make  open  pretence 
of  doing  otherwise;    but  we  thought  none  the 

66 


BARONS    COURT 

worse  of  them  on  that  account,  knowing  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  the  position  in  which  they 
found  themselves.  Dan  Devine,  our  native 
coachman,  would  invariably  wave  his  whip  in  the 
air  and  shout  "  Hamilton  for  ever,"  in  tones  of 
the  utmost  enthusiasm,  when  driving  me  through 
a  Protestant  village  at  election  times,  but  I  have 
little  doubt  that  he  always  voted  against  me. 

Paddy  McAnany  was  my  most  devoted 
adherent  in  all  matters  of  sport,  and  I  verily 
believe  would  have  done  anything  in  the  world 
for  me,  except  vote  for  me.  Long  after  Barons 
Court  had  ceased  to  be  my  home,  and  long  after 
I  had  ceased  to  represent  North  Tyrone  in  Par- 
liament, I  went  over  to  Ireland  on  one  occasion 
to  vote  for  Mr.  Emerson  Herdman,  the  Unionist 
candidate.  After  making  my  cross,  I  returned 
by  train  from  Strabane  to  Newtown  Stewart, 
and  at  Victoria  Bridge  Station  I  saw  my  old  friend 
Paddy  McAnany  get  out  of  the  train,  looking 
a  good  deal  aged  from  when  I  last  saw  him. 
I  called  to  him,  and  we  greeted  one  another 
warmly  and  with  mutual  pleasure.  After  the 
usual  inquiries  as  to  each  other's  welfare,  and 
just  as  the  train  was  moving  off,  some  imp  of 
mischief  prompted  me  to  say,  "  Paddy,  you 
old  villain,  you  know  you  voted  all  wrong." 
The  moment  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth  I 
regretted  them,  for  the  look  of  distress  on  poor 
Paddy's  face  told  only  too  plainly  that  my  shot 
had  gone  home.  He  was  a  man  of  few  words 
and  with  no  skill  at  all  in  lying,  so  he  simply 

67 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

remained  silent  and  looked  sheepish.  I  reproached 
myself,  not  only  for  the  rest  of  that  day,  but  for 
many  days  to  come,  with  having  broken  our 
hard-and-fast  rule  of  never  touching  on  the  sub- 
ject of  politics,  and  what  made  me  do  it  on  this 
occasion  I  really  can't  say ;  but  I  can  say  this  : 
that  had  I  in  the  smallest  degree  foreseen  the 
serious  fashion  in  which  Paddy  would  take  what 
I  only  intended  for  chaff,  I  would  have  gone  far 
before  putting  him  to  such  embarrassment.  I 
never  saw  him  again.  Shortly  afterwards  he 
had  a  stroke  and,  a  year  later,  he  died.  He  was 
a  good  fellow  and  a  staunch  friend,  and  could 
tie  a  fly  as  well  as  any  man  in  Ireland. 

One  of  our  Roman  Catholic  retainers  who 
undoubtedly  did  vote  for  the  family,  for  he 
proclaimed  his  vote  openly,  was  an  under-keeper 
locally  known  as  Chairlie  Morrison.  His  real 
name  was  Charlie  McPatrick  Morris,  being  as 
he  was  the  son  of  one  Pat  Morris,  but  as  Chairlie 
Morrison  he  lived  and  as  Chairlie  Morrison  he 
died.  His  death  was  universally  attributed  by 
those  of  his  own  faith  in  the  district  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  voted  as  he  did,  for  his  action  was 
very  adversely  commented  on  in  the  Draguish 
Chapel  on  the  Sunday  following  the  poll.  His 
death  six  months  later  left  no  doubt  in  the  minds 
of  any  of  those  who  had  been  present  in  the  chapel 
when  his  conduct  was  denounced  that  the  wrath 
of  Heaven  had  overtaken  poor  Chairlie  Morrison 
for  his  impious  action  in  voting  for  the  Unionist 
candidate. 

68 


BARONS    COURT 

The  beaters  at  our  woodcock  shoots  in  the  winter 
were  fairly  equally  divided  as  to  religion  and 
were  all  pretty  good  friends.  In  peace  time,  that 
is  to  say,  when  war  was  not  being  waged  against 
the  woodcock,  they  were  foresters,  and  some 
of  them  were  very  fond  of  airing  their  technical 
knowledge  when  the  opportunity  offered. 

"  Did  you  see  that  woodcock  down,  Mont- 
gomery? "  one  would  ask. 

"  I  did,  my  lord;  she's  down  just  beyond  the 
Picea  Pectinata  yonder."  Next  time  it  would 
be  behind  the  Abies  Nordmanniana. 

There  were  three  of  these  Montgomerys  among 
the  beaters,  all  very  handsome  fellows  and  of 
aristocratic  descent,  for  their  family  had  at  one 
time  been  big  landed  proprietors,  and  they  were 
no  doubt  direct  descendants  of  old  Sir  Hugh 
Montgomery,  who  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the 
invasion  of  Ulster  from  Scotland.  The  eldest  of 
the  three  had  a  wonderfully  poetical  vocabulary, 
and  would  sometimes  give  the  most  surprising 
replies  to  simple  questions. 

"Did  that  hen  pheasant  fall,  Montgomery?  " 
one  of  my  brothers  asked  of  him,  after  he  had 
discharged  both  barrels  at  a  very  high  rocketer. 

"  She  did  not,  my  lord,"  was  the  reply,  in 
Montgomery's  very  slow  bass  tones ;  "  she's 
away  across  the  lake  lamenting  of  her  wounds." 

Another  of  our  beaters,  named  John  Dogherty, 
was  overheard  one  day  addressing  the  following 
exhortation  to  a  rabbit  cowering  for  concealment 
under  a  clump  of  bracken  :    "  Come  out  of  that, 

69 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

ye  cowardly  little  divil,  and  show  yourself  to  the 
jintlemen,  and  join  in  the  sport."  A  tremendous 
whack  with  a  stick  followed,  and  the  poor  rabbit 
shortly  afterwards  "  joined  in  the  sport "  by 
turning  two  complete  somersaults  and  then  lying 
still. 

Our  woodcock  shoots  were  very  good  fun,  for, 
although  we  never  made  sensational  bags,  we 
had  a  great  many  different  beats,  on  all  of  which 
there  was  quite  enough  shooting  to  be  enjoyable^ 
The  best  bag  ever  got  was  ninety-two  woodcock 
on  Bessie  Bell.  Another  good  day  was  when 
four  guns,  of  whom  I  was  one,  got  eighty-two 
woodcock  at  Tavanagh.  I  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  boy  at  the  time  and,  as  I  shot  with 
*'  passed-on  "  guns  which  did  not  suit  me,  my 
contribution  to  the  bag  on  that  occasion  was  a 
light  one.  Had  I  been  up  to  the  standard  of  the 
others  we  should  certainly  have  beaten  the  Bessie 
Bell  day.  The  other  three  guns  were  Lord 
Newport,  Sir  William  Hart  Dyke  and  my  brother 
Claud,  all  very  good  shots.  Nowadays,  alas  1 
the  woodcock  shooting  at  Barons  Court  is  not 
what  it  was.  The  woods  have  grown  up,  the 
heather  undergrowth  has  died  down  and  the 
woodcock  have  passed  on  elsewhere. 


70 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    SEVEN   SISTERS 

From  the  days  of  muscular  adolescence  at 
Barons  Court,  I  must  now  make  a  backward 
leap  to  the  days  of  sailor  suits,  velvet  knicker- 
bockers and  kilts. 

The  first  vision  which  I  can  clearly  focus  of 
our  domestic  circle  and  its  accessories  during  this 
period  seems  to  rest  on  three  sisters  at  home,  one 
brother  at  home,  four  brothers  who  came  and 
went,  and  four  elderly  and  semi-phantom  sisters 
to  whom  were  attached  old  and  formidable 
husbands.  They  were  not,  of  course,  really  old, 
nor  even  elderly,  but  to  the  eye  of  six  everyone 
over  thirty  might  just  as  well  be  eighty  for  all 
the  claims  that  they  can  lay  to  youth.  My 
eldest  sister,  who  had  married  Lord  Lichfield — 
after  three  times  refusing  the  late  Duke  of 
Manchester — was,  in  point  of  fact,  twenty-four 
years  older  than  I  was,  and,  in  consequence,  a 
somewhat  awe-inspiring  figure  to  my  callow  eye. 
With  every  year  that  passed,  however,  some  part 
of  that  awe  evaporated  and  was  replaced  by  a 
corresponding  influx  of  affection,  with  the  result 
that,  by  the  time  I  had  reached  the  age  of  under- 
standing, the  lovableness  of  my   eldest  sister's 

71 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

nature  had  taken  complete  possession  of  me,  and 
blown  all  my  childish  awe  to  the  winds. 

Of  all  my  four  shadowy  married  sisters,  my 
second  sister,  Lady  Durham,  was  the  most 
shadowy.  Although  we  were  very  often  at  Lamb- 
ton  Castle  in  early  days,  she  was  seldom  visiblcj 
for  reasons  which  may  be  briefly  described  as 
maternal  reasons.  In  my  recollection,  therefore, 
she  is  not  very  clearly  defined,  but  the  impression 
which  remains  is  that  of  a  very  beautiful  woman 
with  the  face  of  an  angel,  which,  from  all  accounts, 
was  an  exact  reflection  of  her  nature.  She  died 
at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  having  had  thirteen 
children  in  seventeen  years.  In  those  days  of 
Mosaical  belief,  stupendous  families  were  thought 
to  be  pleasing  to  the  Almighty  and,  if  human 
sacrifices  are  pleasing,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted 
that  they  were.  My  three  eldest  sisters  had 
thirty-four  children  between  them. 

Lambton  Castle  was  a  truly  joyous  place  for 
children  on  account  of  its  size  and  its  many 
staircases  and  intricate  passages,  and  because  it 
was  always  more  or  less  crowded  with  people  of 
the  proper  age,  that  is  to  say,  between  six  and 
sixteen.  It  was  a  wonderful  place  for  "  hide  and 
seek "  and  all  kindred  games.  Our  favourite 
game  was  known  as  "  stag."  A  yelping  and 
inquisitorial  pack  set  out  in  search  of  the  hidden 
stag  and,  after  having  found  and  forced  him  to 
break  cover,  chased  him  in  full  cry  down  the  long 
passages  and  staircases  till  he  was  finally  brought 
to  bay.     He  then  became  one  of  the   pack,  and 

72 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

another  stag  volunteered  for  service.  When 
the  pack  was  in  full  cry,  the  game,  as  may  be 
imagined,  was  not  one  to  soothe  invalids  or 
those  engaged  in  literary  composition.  George 
Durham  ^  would  sometimes  emerge  from  his 
study  with  hunting-crop  in  hand,  and  send  some 
of  the  pack  yelping  away  in  deadly  earnest. 

The  thing  of  most  joy  at  Lambton  was  its 
colossal  hall,  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet  long 
and  as  high  as  a  cathedral,  and,  like  a  cathedral, 
with  a  vaulted  ceiling,  which,  either  by  daylight 
or  lamplight,  was  full  of  dim  and  ghostly  shadows. 
At  one  end  was  a  huge  stained-glass  window 
portraying  the  family's  private  dragon,  known  as 
the  Lambton  Worm,  and  at  the  other  end  two 
galleries  connecting  with  the  first  and  second 
floors  of  the  house.  A  vast  place  it  was  indeed  in 
those  days,  and  full  of  mystery  and  fascination. 
Now  I  believe  it  has  been  clipped  at  one  end  and 
brought  within  more  reasonable  bounds. 

One  little  trivial  incident  in  those  early  days 
at  Lambton  stands  out  very  clearly  in  my 
memory.  My  brother  Freddie  and  I  happened 
to  be  there  on  the  occasion  of  our  sister's  birth- 
day, and,  before  leaving  London,  we  had  provided 
for  the  event  by  spending  all  our  joint  capital 
in  buying  a  present  for  her.  I  can  see  that 
present  now.  It  was  a  hideous  sham  leather 
arrangement  for  holding  writing-paper  and  enve- 
lopes— mud-brown  in  colour,  covered  with  gilt 
scroll-work  and  with  a  hard  round  top — a  perfect 

^  George,  second  Earl  of  Durham. 
73 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

gem  of  mid- Victorian  monstrosity.  We  thought 
it  beautiful  and,  with  a  view  to  adding  to  the 
shock  of  dehght  which  would  be  hers  on  seeing  it, 
we  resorted  to  a  piece  of  guile.  I  went  first  into 
her  room  (she  was  as  usual  ill  in  bed)  with  a 
little  glass  tube  which  imitated  the  call  of  a 
nightingale,  and  gave  it  to  her  as  our  joint 
birthday  present.  On  seeing  it  and  hearing  it 
— to  my  great  consternation — she  burst  into 
tears,  but  quickly  recovered  herself  and  kissed 
me,  smiling.  Then  I  gave  the  pre-arranged  signal 
and  brother  Freddie  entered,  proudly  bearing 
our  hideous  London  atrocity.  "  Ah  !  but  this 
is  our  real  present,"  we  cried  exultantly,  and 
watched  for  signs  of  stupefaction  at  its  beauty 
and  costliness.  She  praised  it  and  kissed  us 
again  and  said  it  was  beautiful,  but  even  we  saw 
that  it  had  failed  to  touch  her  as  our  little  penny 
glass  tube  had  done.  We  wondered  why  at  the 
time,  but  I  think  I  know  now.  We  never  saw 
her  again.  A  few  months  later  the  news  came 
to  us  at  Eastwell  Park  that  she  was  dead.  The 
thirteenth  child  had  proved  too  much.  The 
grief  in  and  around  Lambton  was,  I  believe,  such 
as  is  very  rarely  seen.  Men,  women  and  children 
agreed  that,  if  heaven  had  gained  an  angel,  earth 
had  certainly  lost  one.  George  Durham  was 
never  again  the  same  man.  A  chronic  gloom 
settled  on  him  and  was  reflected  in  a  face  so 
sombre  that  it  used  to  frighten  us  as  children. 
Later  on  we  learned  to  like  it. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  my  third  sister.  Lady 

74 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

Dalkeith,^  with  whom  I  became  so  closely  and 
happily  intimate  in  later  years,  hardly  came 
into  my  early  life  at  all.  Her  home  in  Scotland 
was  too  far  away,  and  her  husband  an  eldest  son 
who  had  not  yet  succeeded,  ar'd  who  was  there- 
fore not  completely  his  own  master,  as  the  others 
were.  With  the  other  sisters,  and  with  their 
husbands  and  children,  we  were  in  close  and 
constant  touch.  In  the  case  of  the  Mount- 
Edgcumbes,  it  was  at  Cannes  that  we  mainly 
foregathered,  for  Mount-Edgcumbe  itself  was 
almost  as  inaccessible  as  Scotland,  and  it  was 
rarely  that  we  found  our  way  there.  Every 
winter  my  fourth  sister  and  my  mother  made  the 
journey  to  Cannes  for  the  sake  of  health,  and 
with  them  went  all  the  Edgcumbe  family  and 
such  members  of  our  family  as  were  unattached, 
while  at  Cannes,  the  two  families  were  always 
close  neighbours,  for  Mount-Edgcumbe  ^  had  a 
villa  near  the  Croix  des  Gardes  which  abutted  on 
the  garden  of  the  Bellevue  Hotel,  where  we  stayed, 
and  all  our  days  were  spent  in  passing  from  one 
house  to  the  other,  and  in  joint  expeditions  to 
the  beauty  spots  of  the  district.  The  residential 
part  of  Cannes  was  in  those  far-off  days  very 
small  indeed,  and  the  country  round  quite  wild 
and  unbuilt  over. 

While  the  Edgcumbes  shared  our  winters,  it 
was  the  Ansons  and  the  Lambtons  with  whom 
we  were  mainly  thrown  at  other  seasons  of  the 

*  Afterwards  Duchess  of  Bucclcuch. 
2  William,  fourth  Earl  of  Mount-Edgcumbe. 
75 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

year.  With  these  two  allied  families  it  was  our 
habit  to  exchange  hospitality  on  a  wholesale 
scale  which  even  now  fills  me  with  wonder  when 
I  look  back  upon  it.  Nowadays  such  invasions 
in  force  as  we  were  in  the  habit  of  making  on  our 
"  in  laws  '*  would  of  course  be  utterly  out  of  the 
question,  and  I  fancy  they  must  have  been 
something  out  of  the  common  even  in  the  days 
of  which  I  write.  I  think  the  relations  between 
my  father  and  his  two  eldest  sons-in-law  must 
have  been  more  brotherly  than  fatherly.  In 
any  case,  we  used  at  regular  and  not  long-divided 
intervals  to  bear  down  in  full  family  force  on 
George  Durham  at  Lambton,  or  on  the  Ansons 
at  Shugborough — a  party  consisting  of  father, 
mother,  daughter,  maid,  valet  and  two  sons — 
and  remain  with  them  for  periods  running  into 
weeks.  They  in  turn  would  pay  us  long  and 
equally  comprehensive  visits  at  Beaudesert,  East- 
well  Park  or  the  Viceregal  Lodge,  as  the  case 
might  be.  While  at  Beaudesert  we  were,  of 
course,  in  very  close  proximity  to  the  Lichfields 
at  Shugborough,  being,  in  fact,  only  separated 
from  them  by  eight  miles  of  Cannock  Chase,  at 
that  time  a  lovely  expanse  of  heather,  bracken 
and  moorland,  but  now,  alas  !  made  hideously 
profitable  by  a  number  of  coal-mines.  Beau- 
desert Park  touches  one  end  of  the  Chase  and 
Shugborough  Park  the  other,  so  that  to  ride 
across  from  one  house  to  the  other  was  an  easy 
and  a  pleasant  undertaking.  In  the  case  of 
lengthy  visits  in  bulk  from  one  establishment  to 

76 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

the  other,  the  transport  of  all  concerned — 
parents,  children,  servants  and  luggage — was 
effected  in  the  family  carriages.  The  incoming 
guests  were  usually  accompanied  by  a  certain 
amount  of  live-stock  in  the  shape  of  horses  and 
dogs.  I  remember  that,  on  one  occasion,  George 
Durham  came  to  Eastwell  with  three  daughters, 
nurse,  nursery-maid,  valet  and  groom — the  latter 
being  in  attendance  on  the  eldest  daughter's 
pony,  which  also  formed  one  of  the  party.  As 
this  formidable  cavalcade  journeyed  the  whole 
way  from  Co.  Durham  to  Kent,  it  may  easily  be 
understood  that  the  visit  was  not  exactly  in  the 
nature  of  a  flying  one. 

During  the  course  of  this  particular  visit,  the 
pony  above-mentioned  was  responsible  for  bring- 
ing about  my  humiliation  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
Eastwell  stable  establishment.  The  pony  had  a 
great  reputation  in  Co.  Durham  for  speed.  I 
also  boasted  a  pony  of  about  the  same  size  which 
also  had  a  great  (and  deserved)  reputation  for 
speed.  And  so  it  came  about  that  one  day  it  was 
suggested  from  some  quarter  or  another,  that  the 
two  should  have  a  race  across  the  plain  in  front 
of  Eastwell  House  to  the  foot  of  the  Reservoir 
hill  and  back.  After  luncheon  the  ponies  were 
brought  round  and  the  entire  house-party  crowded 
out  under  the  portico  to  watch  the  race ;  and  off 
we  started.  I  regret  to  have  to  record  that  I 
was  shamefully  beaten,  being  completely  out- 
jockeyed  by  my  niece.  The  fact  was  that  I  had 
had  it  ceaselessly  dinned  into  my  ears  by  my 

77 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

parents  and  others  that  I  must  not  gallop  across 
the  Plain  (as  we  called  it)  on  account  of  the 
masses  of  rabbit-holes  with  which  it  was  per- 
forated; or,  at  any  rate,  that,  if  I  did,  I  was  to 
keep  a  very  sharp  look-out  for  the  holes  and  steer 
clear  of  them.  So  deeply  had  this  most  proper 
and  reasonable  order  sunk  into  my  youthful 
brain  that,  during  the  race  in  question,  I  was 
far  more  occupied  in  dodging  the  rabbit-holes 
than  in  getting  back  first  to  the  house.  Bee 
Pembroke — or  Bee  Lambton,  as  she  then  was — 
on  the  other  hand,  made  a  straight  point  for  her 
objective  from  the  very  start,  and  galloped  full 
tilt  over  all  the  intervening  rabbit-holes,  with 
a  happy  indifference  to  possibilities  which  was 
little  short  of  heroic.  Needless  to  say,  I  finished 
a  bad  second,  and  was  greeted  on  my  return  with 
derisive  and  insulting  comments.  "  Fancy  being 
beaten  by  a  girl !  "  my  groom  muttered  con- 
temptuously as  I  dismounted.  I  am  afraid  it  is 
not  to  be  denied  that  I  deserved  all  I  got.  It 
happened  to  come  to  my  ears  that  the  two  grooms 
had  a  return  match  while  out  at  exercise  one 
morning,  and  my  pony  won.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  he  had  a  great  turn  of  speed,  for  in  the 
Phoenix  Park  (where  there  are  no  rabbit-holes)  I 
used  regularly  to  race  him,  over  short  courses, 
with  all  the  grooms  at  exercise  in  the  Fifteen 
Acres,  and,  as  far  as  I  remember,  I  always  won. 
The  effect  of  the  triple  alliance  above  outlined 
between  the  three  families  of  Hamilton,  Anson 
and  Lambton — each  of  which  curiously  enough, 

78 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

numbered  exactly  thirteen — was  that  we  grew  up 
more  or  less  as  one  gigantic  family  of  thirty-nine 
with  a  plurality  of  residences.  "  Uncle  and 
nephews  "  relations,  of  course,  at  no  time  came 
into  play.  How  could  they  indeed  in  my  own 
case,  with  four  of  my  Lambton  nephews  and  two 
of  my  Anson  nephews  older  than  myself?  We 
were  simply  a  mass  of  brothers  and  sisters  of 
varying  ages. 

I  think  my  father  must  have  had  an  unusually 
strong  liking  for  George  Durham,  for  he  twice 
combined  with  him  in  renting  Arisaig  from  Mr. 
Astley.  Those  were  tremendous  days  indeed,  for 
the  two  families — ^parents  included — numbered 
together  no  less  than  twenty-nine,  and,  though 
naturally  the  whole  number  were  never  all  at 
Arisaig  at  once,  we  were  a  pretty  big  pack  of 
youngsters,  and  must  have  taken  a  lot  of  handling 
and  a  tremendous  lot  of  feeding.  To  the  best  of 
my  recollection,  however,  there  was  never  the 
slightest  trace  of  friction  arising  out  of  the  dual 
tenancy.  Durham  had  his  sailing  yacht  and  my 
father  had  his  steam  yacht,  to  which  each  might 
have  retired  in  the  event  of  relations  becoming 
too  strained,  but  nothing  of  the  sort  ever  took 
place.  When  the  two  tenants  took  to  their 
yachts,  they  did  so  in  close  company  and  in 
furtherance  of  some  joint  expedition. 

There  was  an  interval  of  two  years  between 
the  first  and  the  second  tenancy  of  Arisaig.  On 
the  first  occasion  we  were  perhaps  too  young  to 
appreciate  to  the  full  the  extraordinary  beauty 

79 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

of  the  place  and  its  surroundings,  but  we  fully 
appreciated  the  excitement  of  getting  there  and 
the   novelty   of  the   Highland   scenery   through 
which   we  passed.     My  brother  Freddie   and   I 
journeyed  up  from  Euston  to  Kingussie  under  the 
escort   of  our   brother   Claud,    and   from   there 
drove  the  ninety-six  miles  to  Arisaig — fifty-six 
miles  in  the  mail-coach  from  Kingussie  to  Banavie, 
and  the  remaining  forty  miles  to  Arisaig  in  a 
hired  wagonette.     I  was  only  twelve  at  the  time 
and    my    brother     fourteen.      Seats    had    been 
reserved  for  us  on  the  top  of  the  coach  just  behind 
the  driver,  and,  in  spite  of  the  ceaseless  rain,  we 
lived  every  moment  of  the  long  drive  to  Banavie. 
To  us  it  was  a  lifting  of  the  veil  that  shut  off 
fairy-land.     The  bare  rock  cropping  up  through 
the  heather  and  bracken;    the  wild  little  black- 
faced  sheep  scampering  about  like  dogs  in  such 
very  different  fashion  to  the  stolid  old  South- 
downs   to    which    we    were    used;    the    leaping, 
twisting,  musical  burns,  brown  in  colour,  but  so 
wonderfully  clear  and  uncontaminated  compared 
to  the  sluggish,   turgid   streams   of  Kent;    the 
indefinable  but  intoxicating  smell  of  the  moor- 
land, and,  beyond  all  else,  I  think,  the  absence  of 
the  proprietary  enclosures  which,  in  the  south, 
form  such  a  bar  to  youthful  enterprise,  filled  us 
with  a  spirit  of  enchantment  that  was  almost  too 
rapturous  for  verbal  expression.     We  simply  sat 
and  drank  it  all  in  thirstily.     At  Loch  Laggan  Inn 
we  disembarked  for  luncheon  and  were  fed  on 
pink-fleshed  trout  fried  in  breadcrumbs,  scones, 

80 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

honey  and  fresh  salt  butter.  I  remember  that 
brother  Freddie  and  I  drank  large  tumblers  of 
milk.  We  did  not  like  milk,  but  we  thought  it 
rather  a  sporting  thing  to  do,  and  the  kind  lassie 
who  waited  pressed  it  on  us.  We  all  sat  at  a 
round  table,  a  very  small  party  of  not  more  than 
seven  or  eight,  among  whom  were  two  Glasgow 
tourists  who  did  not  drink  milk,  but  a  good  deal 
of  yellow  liquid  which  they  produced  out  of  their 
pockets.     We  thought  it  was  cowslip  wine. 

The  novelty  and  joy  of  that  meal  must  have 
stamped  itself  for  ever  on  my  brain,  for  the  whole 
scene  rises  before  my  eyes  as  clear-cut  as  though 
it  were  yesterday  instead  of  more  than  half  a 
century  ago. 

When  we  resumed  our  seats  we  found  the  two 
Glasgow  tourists  behind  us,  and  in  talkative 
mood.  We  much  enjoyed  some  of  their  naive 
comments  on  the  strange  fauna  of  the  Highlands. 

"  See,  Andra,  yon's  a  har',"  said  one  of  them, 
pointing  to  a  large  lop-eared  rabbit  placidly 
munching  a  lettuce  outside  a  cottage  door. 

"  Oh,  aye,"  said  Andra  in  rapt  admiration. 
We  laughed  over  this  remark  for  the  best  part 
of  an  hour,  but  even  funnier  to  our  minds  was 
Andra's  exclamation  of  "  Yon's  a  hee  hull " 
(high  hill),  when  the  towering,  snow-clad  crest  of 
Ben  Nevis  first  came  into  view  over  Fort  William. 

The  little  Loch  Laggan  Inn  where  we  fortified 
ourselves  with  the  Arcadian  meal  above  de- 
scribed stood,  and  I  imagine  still  stands,  on  the 
shore  of  the  loch  which  faces  Ardverikie,  where 

G  81 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

my  father  and  mother  had  spent  such  happy 
and  eventful  days  five-and-thirty  years  before 
our  joyous  drive  from  Kingussie,  and  nearly 
ninety  years  before  the  date  at  which  I  write. 
My  father  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  invade  the 
Highlands  from  the  south  in  pursuit  of  the  red 
deer.  He  and  my  mother  used,  at  first,  to  drive 
the  whole  way  from  London  in  the  family  coach. 
Later  on,  as  railways  developed,  they  used  to  go 
as  far  as  Edinburgh  by  train,  and  from  there 
complete  the  journey  in  the  family  coach.  This 
historic  conveyance,  long  since  matchwood  and 
fungus,  held  six  inside,  four  outside  behind  the 
horses  and  two  in  the  "  dickie  "  behind.  The 
luggage  was  carried  in  a  tarpaulined  tank-like 
arrangement  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  which  was 
drawn  by  four  horses  and  postilions.  Up  certain 
very  steep  gradients,  two  additional  horses, 
which  had  been  requisitioned  in  advance,  and 
which  were  waiting  in  readiness  by  the  roadside, 
were  attached  in  front. 

My  father's  guests  at  Ardverikie  and  at  the 
Black  Mount,  which  he  afterwards  rented  from 
Lord  Dudley,  would  appear  to  have  been  the 
victims  of  an  insane  and  altogether  childish 
jealousy  in  the  matter  of  their  deer-stalking 
achievements.  At  that  time  a  wholly  artificial 
glamour  surrounded  the  sport  of  deer-stalking — 
chiefly,  of  course,  because  of  its  far-away  charac- 
ter and  its  novelty  as  a  sport  for  Southrons.  A 
subsidiary  glamour,  which  was  a  reflection  of  the 
other,  surroimded  the  eating  of  decomposed  limbs 

82 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

of  venison.  These  were  sent  by  the  proud  slayer 
to  friends  in  England,  and,  as  the  journey  then 
occupied  some  fourteen  days,  and  the  season  was 
summer,  they  naturally  arrived  in  a  condition 
which  would  have  condemned  any  other  form  of 
meat  to  the  pig- tub.  As,  however,  the  meat  in 
question  was  the  flesh  of  the  romantic  Highland 
red  deer,  people  ate  it  with  the  help  of  much  red- 
currant  jelly  and  smacked  their  lips  ecstatically 
over  its  acrid  smell  and  taste.  Even  after  im- 
proved train  services  permitted  of  venison  reaching 
its  destination  within  twenty-four  hours,  many 
people  still  thought  that  it  was  the  right  thing  to 
keep  it  till  it  had  gone  bad  before  eating  it. 

Let  us,  however,  come  back  to  my  father's 
Highland  guests  and  their  idiosyncrasies.  The 
petty  jealousies  of  these,  according  to  my  mother's 
oft-repeated  accounts,  would  seem  almost  to 
have  passed  the  bounds  of  belief.  If  Lord  A. 
shot  a  stag  with  two  points  more  than  Lord 
B.'s  stag,  the  latter  would  go  to  bed  and  not 
reappear  for  twenty-four  hours.  If  Lord  B.'s 
stag  weighed  more  than  Lord  C.'s,  any  allusion 
to  the  fact  was  taken  as  a  personal  insult  and 
treated  as  such.  As  may  be  imagined,  where 
such  conditions  prevailed,  hardly  any  of  the 
guests  were  on  speaking  terms  with  one  another 
after  the  first  two  days  of  the  visit.  On  one 
occasion  Lord  D.  actually  took  his  departure  in 
wrath  and  went  all  the  way  back  to  London 
because  Lord  C.  had  been  allotted  a  better  beat 
for  the  following  day  than  himself.     Landseer, 

83 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

the  artist,  who  was  always  one  of  the  party,  and 
who  learned  all  his  deer-lore  while  staying  with 
my  father,  was  just  as  jealous  as  any  of  them 
and,  though  a  notoriously  bad  shot,  expected  to 
be  sent  out  on  all  the  best  beats  as  regularly  as 
the  others.  The  burden  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
Highland  host  in  those  days  must  have  been 
heavy  indeed  ! 

Personally,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  I 
have  never  been  able  to  get  up  the  very  smallest 
enthusiasm  over  deer-stalking  as  a  sport.  My 
experience,  I  must  admit,  has  been  limited,  but 
it  has  been  sufficient.  Three  stags  only,  in  fact, 
have  fallen  to  my  aim.  The  death  of  my  first 
victim  will  be  described  anon.  The  death  of  my 
second  victim  came  about  as  follows  : — 

I  was  staying  at  Invergarry  with  that  most 
charming  and  interesting  of  hostesses,  the  late 
Mrs.  Edward  EUice,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  I 
was  sent  out  deer-stalking.  I  walked,  crawled, 
wriggled  and  slid  for  a  great  many  hours  over 
very  wet  and  stony  ground,  in  the  expectation, 
presumably,  of  arriving  by  these  means  within 
shot  of  a  deer.  The  expectation  was  not  realised. 
What  the  plan  of  campaign  in  the  stalker's  mind 
may  have  been  was  not  divulged  to  me,  nor  did 
I  make  inquiries.  I  was  frankly  bored  by  the 
whole  thing.  I  followed  patiently  in  the  wake 
of  the  stalker,  mechanically  adopting  the  same 
painful  and  ignominious  attitudes  as  my  leader, 
but  without  the  faintest  idea  of  what  we  were 
trying  to  do.     There  was  much  levelling  of  tele- 

84 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

scopes  and  much  holding  up  of  wet  fingers  to 
gauge  the  direction  of  the  wind.  In  fact,  there 
was  an  impressive  display  of  science  combined 
with  a  high  trial  of  muscular  activity  and  physical 
endurance,  which  lasted  from  morn  till  dewy  eve, 
but  which  did  not  succeed  in  bringing  me — a 
mere  mechanical  death-dealer — within  shot  of  a 
stag.  Eventually  we  gave  up  the  chase  and 
turned  for  home.  Side  by  side  the  stalker  and  I 
strode  along  over  the  bent  and  heather,  while  I 
listened  with  reverence  to  a  recital  of  the  extra- 
ordinary difficulties  of  wind  and  atmosphere  that 
we  had  had  to  contend  with  during  our  stalk.  I 
gathered  from  what  he  told  me  that  there  was 
a  kind  of  fiendish  atmospheric  combination  at 
work  that  day  which  made  it  practically  impos- 
sible to  get  within  shooting  distance  of  the  wily 
stag.  He  lamented  the  fact  that  my  first  essay 
under  his  auspices  should  have  been  on  such  an 
evilly  disposed  day.  A  little  elementary  instruc- 
tion on  the  art  of  deer-stalking  followed.  In  the 
midst  of  an  animated  explanation  of  the  necessity 
for  absolute  noiselessness  in  approaching  the 
antlered  quarry,  we  suddenly  walked  straight 
upon  a  large  stag  browsing  peacefully  like  a  cow 
within  thirty  yards  of  us,  but  with  his  back 
turned.  Instinctively  we  both  dropped  to  the 
ground  and  the  stalker  slipped  the  rifle  into  my 
hand.  I  waited  till  the  beast  turned  his  side  to 
me  and  then  shot  him.  It  was  impossible  to 
miss  him. 

We  walked  home  with  our  spirits  uplifted,  but 

85 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

I  could  not  help  wondering  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  why  I  had  been  forced  to  sweep  such 
long,  wet  stretches  of  moorland  with  my  waist- 
coat, when  it  was  very  evidently  possible  for 
two  men  in  full  and  animated  conversation  to 
walk  up  to  within  thirty  yards  of  a  stag  and 
shoot  it. 

I  shot  another  stag  at  Invergarry  two  days 
later.  This  time  I  came  upon  the  beast  in  more 
conventional  style,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  posture 
to  which  the  serpent  was  condemned  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  and  if  I  ate  no  dust  it  was 
simply  because  there  was  no  dust  to  eat.  The 
persistent  Scotch  mist  took  care  of  that.  As  the 
stalker  handed  me  the  rifle,  I  excited  his  rage 
and  contempt  by  drawing  his  attention  to  a 
magnificent  golden  eagle  which  was  poised  majes- 
tically over  our  heads.  I  was  much  more 
interested  in  the  eagle  than  in  the  stag,  but 
eventually  I  brought  my  mind  back  with  an 
effort  to  the  business  in  hand  and  did  the  needful. 

I  must  now  tell  the  story  of  my  first  stag, 
which  is  really  rather  interesting.  I  was  staying 
with  old  Lochiel  at  Achnacarry,  but  my  visit  had 
necessarily  to  be  a  short  one,  as  I  was  due  on  a 
certain  day  to  pass  on  to  Glamis  Castle.  The 
first  three  days  I  devoted  to  boating  and  fishing, 
but  on  the  fourth  day  it  was  decreed  that  I  should 
go  in  pursuit  of  the  deer.  On  the  fourth  day, 
however,  the  weather  was  so  abominable  that 
my  stalk  was  put  off  till  the  fifth  day.  The  fifth 
day  turned  out  to  be  worse  than  the  fourth,  and 

86 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

as  everyone  agreed  that  such  weather  could  not 
continue,  it  was  again  decided  to  postpone  my 
stalk.  The  sixth  day  was  a  Saturday  and,  as  I 
was  leaving  on  the  Monday,  it  was  the  last  day 
on  which  I  had  a  chance  of  killing  an  Achnacarry 
stag.  Unfortunately,  the  weather  on  the  sixth 
day  was  even  worse  than  on  either  of  the  pre- 
ceding days.  It  rained  in  torrents;  it  blew  a 
gale  and  it  was  bitterly  cold.  Everyone  (myself 
included)  agreed  that  it  would  be  madness  to  go 
out  on  such  a  day.  It  was  suggested  that  it 
might  clear  after  luncheon,  and  with  that  hope  I 
had  to  appear  content.  After  luncheon,  however, 
the  weather  was  worse  than  ever.  Maclaren,  the 
stalker,  was  in  the  house,  and  greatly  distressed 
that  my  visit  was  to  come  to  an  end  without  my 
having  got  a  stag.  So  distressed,  in  fact,  was  he 
that  he  suggested  that  we  should  go  out  in  spite 
of  the  weather  and  have  a  try.  The  other 
stalker,  who  was  also  at  the  house,  ridiculed  the 
idea  of  anyone  getting  a  stag  on  such  a  day,  but 
this  only  seemed  to  make  Maclaren  the  keener. 
I  could  see  that  he  was  desperately  anxious  for  me 
to  go,  and  more,  I  think,  with  the  idea  of  showing 
him  that  bad  weather  had  no  terrors  for  me  than 
from  any  real  keenness  on  my  own  part,  I  agreed 
to  do  so.  I  also  undoubtedly  had  a  certain  amount 
of  curiosity  to  see  how  the  thing  was  done,  as  I 
had  never  been  out  deer-stalking  in  my  life,  though, 
needless  to  say,  I  did  not  give  that  fact  away. 

Out  we  went  then,  like  good  King  Wenceslas 
and  his  page,  "  through  the  cruel  weather."     We 

87 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

walked  a  good  long  way  and  then  started  crawling. 
We  crawled  like  worms  on  our  stomachs  for  about 
three  hundred  yards,  till  we  got  to  the  edge  of  a 
corrie,  and  there,  below  us,  about  eighty  yards 
away,  were  two  splendid  stags  and  about  sixty 
hinds.  They  were  all  very  much  bunched  up, 
and  the  stags  were,  of  course,  more  often  than 
not,  screened  by  passing  hinds.  "  The  second 
stag,"  Maclaren  hissed  into  my  ear,  as  he  passed 
me  the  rifle.  "  Now,  tak'  your  time,  man."  I 
was  soaked  to  the  very  skin ;  my  fingers  were  like 
ice,  and  right  into  my  eyes  drove  a  blinding  rain, 
so  heavy  that  it  actually  blurred  the  outlines  of 
the  deer.  However,  I  determined  to  do  my  best. 
I  levelled  the  rifle  in  the  direction  of  the  second 
stag  and  then  proceeded  to  wriggle  my  body  into 
the  approved  position  as  laid  down  by  the 
Musketry  Instructions  at  Hythe,  where  I  had 
recently  passed  my  course.  While  I  was  going 
through  this  preliminary  exercise,  to  my  un- 
speakable horror,  my  rifle  went  off  with  a  terrific 
explosion  which  echoed  and  re-echoed  off  the 
surrounding  hills.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  groaned 
aloud.  I  felt  that  I  must  inevitably  have  killed 
— or  worse  still  wounded — at  least  a  dozen  hinds, 
the  one  heinous  sin  for  which  there  is  no  forgive- 
ness from  owners  of  deer-forests  and  their 
myrmidons.  I  was  roused  from  my  tragic 
thoughts  by  a  loud  exultant  yell  from  Maclaren, 
whom  I  saw  leaping  down  the  side  of  the  corrie 
in  the  direction  of  the  second  stag,  which  lay  on 
its  side  stone  dead  ! 

88 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

How  it  was  done  I  cannot  attempt  to  explain. 
It  was  certainly  the  most  amazing  fluke  that  ever 
fell  to  the  lot  of  man.  But  the  explanation  of 
why  it  happened  is  simple  enough.  I  had  bor- 
rowed Lochiel's  rifle,  which  had  a  hair-trigger,  as 
to  which  he  had  not  warned  me.  The  only  rifle 
I  had  ever  handled  was  a  Martini-Henry  carbine 
with  a  four-pound  pull-off,  at  which  one  had  to 
tug  till  one's  finger  and  thumb  ached.  It  is  not 
surprising  then  that,  under  my  frozen  fingers,  a 
hair-trigger  did  not  wait  for  that  "  steady  pres- 
sure of  the  finger  and  thumb,  without  the  slightest 
motion  of  the  hand,  eye  or  arm,  till  the  spring  is 
released,"  which  the  Musketry  Manual  laid  down 
and  which  I  was  preparing  to  give  it. 

Needless  to  say,  I  kept  my  own  counsel  and 
gave  nothing  away,  either  at  the  moment  or  later 
on.  Maclaren  must  have  thought  me  a  wonderful 
shot,  for  the  rifle  went  off  almost  before  I  had  got 
it  to  my  shoulder.  Nor  did  I  give  away  the  fact 
that  this  was  my  first  stag,  for  such  a  confession 
is  usually  followed  by  a  bloody  and  unpleasant 
ritual  which  I  was  anxious  to  avoid. 

I  told  Lochiel,  when  I  got  home,  that  his  rifle 
suited  me  very  well. 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  you  liked  it,"  he  said.  "  By 
the  way,  I  ought  to  have  warned  you  that  it's 
got  a  hair-trigger.  But  I  suppose  Maclaren  told 
you." 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  he  did  not;  but,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  think  I  rather  like  hair- triggers.  They 
seem  to  suit  my  style  of  shooting." 

89 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

"  Evidently,"  he  remarked ;  "  Maclaren  says 
you  shoot  stags  as  if  they  were  snipe." 

I  was  sorely  tempted  to  reveal  the  truth,  and 
if  it  had  only  been  Lochiel  that  I  had  to  deal 
with,  I  am  sure  that  I  should  have  done  so;  but 
I  was  afraid  of  lowering  myself  in  the  eyes  of 
Maclaren,  and  so  I  held  my  peace.  Lochiel 
would  have  enjoyed  the  story,  for  he  had  a  quaint 
and  caustic  sense  of  humour  that  saw  the  comical 
side  of  life  in  weal  or  woe,  and  an  original  way 
of  putting  things  that  was  at  times  highly  enter- 
taining. I  met  him  on  a  certain  summer  day  in 
London. 

"HuUoa,  Lochiel!"  I  said.  "What  brings 
you  up?  " 

"  You  may  well  ask,"  he  replied  irritably. 
"  Well,  the  fact  is  they  wired  to  say  my  mother 
was  dying,  and  I  came  all  the  way  up  from 
Achnacarry;  and  now  I  find  she  isn't  dying  at 
all.  It  really  is  a  most  infernal  nuisance."  I 
knew  exactly  what  he  meant,  but  it  was  a  quaint 
way  of  putting  it. 

No  man  ever  fitted  his  surroundings  more 
picturesquely  than  Lochiel  fitted  into  the  beauti- 
ful Cameron  country  over  which  he  held  sway. 
He  was  in  every  sense  the  typical  Highland 
chieftain,  tall,  stalwart,  white-bearded  and  beauti- 
fully in  keeping  with  the  place.  In  his  kilt  he 
looked  like  a  figure  out  of  a  Raeburn  canvas. 

To  come  back  to  the  question  of  deer-stalking, 
I  have  always  held,  and  still  do  hold,  the  belief 
that  there  is  no  particular  art  in  it,  and  that  all 

90 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

the  difficulties  and  discomforts  of  approach  to 
which  one  is  subjected  are  part  of  the  official 
hocus-pocus  of  the  brawny  cateran  into  whose 
hands  one  is  committed.  Lord  Southesk — one 
of  the  best  shots  with  gun  or  rifle  in  the  kingdom 
— once  told  me  that  while  deer-stalking  on  a  very 
famous  forest  in  the  Highlands,  he  chanced  to 
look  round  just  after  the  rifle  had  been  handed  to 
him,  and  discovered  the  stalker  in  the  act  of 
waving  a  handkerchief  behind  his  back.  Without 
a  word,  he  laid  the  rifle  down  and  walked  straight 
home. 

Some  years  ago  I  was  at  Arisaig  in  the  spring- 
time with  two  of  my  brothers,  and  we  occasionally 
amused  ourselves  by  stalking  deer — needless  to 
say  unarmed.  Never  once  did  we  fail  to  get 
within  shooting  distance  of  any  stag  we  had 
marked,  unless,  of  course,  the  lie  of  the  ground 
made  any  attempt  at  concealment  impossible. 
It  may  be  urged  by  stalking  enthusiasts  that  the 
spring-time  stag  is  a  more  confiding  beast  than 
the  autumn  stag,  and  this  may  well  be  so,  but  I 
still  hold  to  my  belief  that  nothing  more  than 
ordinary  precautions  and  ordinary  common- 
sense  are  required. 

I  have,  in  my  none-too-enthusiastic  pursuit  of 
the  stag,  strayed  somewhat  from  the  homely 
topic  of  my  brothers-in-law ;  so  let  me  return,  for 
a  short  run,  to  the  main  track.  When  I  was 
eleven  years  old,  the  noble  company  of  my 
brothers-in-law  was  reinforced  by  the  addition 
of  Lord  Blandford  and  Lord  Lansdowne,   who 

91 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

married  my  two  youngest  sisters  in  Westminster 
Abbey  on  the  same  day,  and  so  added  Blenheim 
and  Bowood  to  the  list  of  affiliated  houses. 
The  marriage  took  place  from  Chesterfield  House 
and  was,  as  may  be  supposed,  quite  a  big  function. 
The  item  of  chief  importance  in  connection  with 
it  was,  in  my  mind,  the  presentation  to  me  by 
one  of  the  bridegrooms  (I  think  it  was  Lans- 
downe)  of  a  set  of  pink  coral  studs  in  a  leather 
case.  Those  studs  were  to  me  for  many  years 
afterwards  the  most  precious  thing  that  the  world 
held,  and  I  wore  them  with  pride  at  the  wedding 
ceremony  in  combination  with  a  red  Stuart 
tartan  kilt  and  a  blue  waistcoat  with  silver 
buttons,  so  that  my  appearance  must  have  been 
distinctly  on  the  gaudy  side. 

After  the  Westminster  Abbey  ceremony,  my 
fifth  sister  was  the  only  one  left  at  home,  and  at 
home  she  remained  for  many  years  in  defiance 
of  a  succession  of  offers,  many  of  which  were 
desirable  in  the  extreme  from  the  point  of  view  of 
parents.  At  the  time  of  her  refusal  of  these 
suitors,  my  mother  was  very  far  from  strong,  and 
I  know  that  my  sister  considered  it  her  duty  to 
stay  by  her.  My  mother,  however,  grew  stronger 
and  stronger  with  advancing  years,  and  finally 
became  so  active  and  independent  that  my  sister 
felt  that  her  presence  was  no  longer  essential, 
and  she  married  Lord  Winterton.  It  is  pleasant 
to  be  able  to  record  that  she  lost  nothing  by  her 
self-denial  in  earlier  years,  for  a  handsomer  or 
more   devoted   and   sympathetic   husband   than 

92 


THE    SEVEN    SISTERS 

finally  armed  her  down  the  aisle  cannot  well  be 
conceived.  Winterton,  in  appearance,  manners 
and  tastes,  was  the  beau-ideal  of  the  English 
country  gentleman,  and  his  popularity  in  West 
Sussex,  and  indeed  in  every  district  and  in 
every  family  where  he  was  known,  was  simply 
prodigious. 


93 


CHAPTER  VI 

HARROW 

Following  in  the  footsteps  of  my  father  and 
all  my  brothers,  I  was  sent  to  Harrow  at  the  age 
of  thirteen,  and  there  went  through  the  usual 
experiences  of  all  small  boys  on  their  first  arrival 
at  a  big  school.  For  the  public  such  experiences 
have  no  interest  and  I  have  no  intention  of  record- 
ing them.  One  incident,  however,  of  my  first 
year  seems  to  stand  out  as  worthy  of  mention. 
At  the  end  of  my  second  term  I  left  Bowen's 
house,  which  was  a  small  one,  and  went  into 
Kendall's.  By  brother  Freddie  had  already  been 
an  inmate  of  this  house  for  over  two  years.  To 
those  who  have  only  known  this  brother  of  mine 
in  after  years  it  may  come  as  a  surprise  to  learn 
that,  at  that  period  of  his  life,  he  was  of  a  dis- 
tinctly silent  and  seclusive  disposition.  He  had 
an  extraordinarily  original  and  inventive  mind, 
and  I  think  used,  while  other  boys  were  more 
frivolously  engaged,  to  ruminate  deeply  over 
his  creative  schemes,  either  musical,  literary 
or  hydraulic.  His  enterprise  in  the  last-named 
department  was  remarkable,  and  proved  destruc- 
tive of  much  bedroom  furniture  in  the  various 
houses  we  occupied.  On  one  occasion  the  mis- 
carriage of  an  ambitious  scheme  cut  off  the  water 

94 


HARROW 

supply  from  the  Viceregal  Lodge  for  some  days 
and  flooded  the  dairy  to  a  depth  of  three  feet. 
This,  however,  is  by  the  way.  The  particular 
enterprise  of  which  I  wish  to  speak  was  not 
hydraulic,  but  religious  and  musical. 

There  was  at  that  time  a  boy  in  Kendall's  house 
named  Shifner,  who  was  a  great  friend  of  my 
brother's  and  almost  his  equal  in  inventive 
originality.  Shifner  and  my  brother  conceived  a 
craze  for  carving  little  idols  out  of  wax  candles, 
and  gradually  other  boys  in  the  house  took  up 
the  idea,  and  a  regular  competition  started  as  to 
who  could  produce  the  best-carved  and  most 
artistic  image.  These  images,  when  completed, 
were  about  three  inches  high,  and  we  called 
them  pocket  Baals,  heaven  only  knows  why. 
Pocket  Buddhas  would  have  been  a  far  more 
appropriate  name,  but  we  knew  little  of  Buddha 
in  those  days,  whereas  Baal  figured  prominently 
in  most  of  the  first  lessons  on  Sundays.  We  used 
to  carry  these  little  images  about  in  our  pockets 
and  exhibit  them  with  pride  in  school,  and  even 
put  in  a  few  finishing  touches  in  cases  where  the 
form-master  was  not  too  quick-sighted. 

To  Shifner  must  be  allowed  the  credit  of  having 
first  conceived  the  idea  of  enshrining  one  of  these 
Baals  in  a  temple  of  its  own.  A  small  empty 
packing-case  was  procured  from  the  butler. 
This  was  placed  on  its  side,  the  walls  were  lined 
with  crimson  paper  and  the  ceiling  with  sky-blue. 
A  little  toy  lamp  hung  down  on  thin  chains  from 
a  tin-tack  driven  into  the  ceiling.     Baal — by  the 

95 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

somewhat  ignominious  process  of  placing  a  lighted 
match  under  his  base — was  stuck  to  the  floor  of 
the  temple,  and  in  front  of  him  stood  a  beautiful 
altar  made  out  of  twigs  from  our  firewood  covered 
with  tin-foil.  On  the  top  of  the  altar  was  a  ham 
on  a  dish  out  of  some  doll's  dinner  service. 

Shifner  had  conceived  the  temple ;  it  remained 
for  my  brother  to  conceive  the  ritual.  My 
brother  was  something  of  a  musical  genius.  He 
was  a  brilliant  performer  on  the  piano,  had  a  most 
remarkable  knowledge  of  harmony,  and  could  at 
any  time  have  made  a  handsome  living  as  a 
musical  entertainer  of  the  Corney  Grain  type. 
In  fact,  in  my  humble  opinion,  he  was  distinctly 
superior  in  that  line  to  either  Corney  Grain  or 
George  Grossmith  senior.  He  now  set  to  work  to 
compose  a  Baalistic  chant  worthy  of  the  occasion. 
We  were  all  at  the  time  a  little  cracked  on  the 
subject  of  part-singing — a  form  of  exercise  greatly 
encouraged  by  John  Farmer — and,  in  compliment 
to  this  craze,  my  brother  composed  a  four- part 
chant  which  we  sang  with  no  little  effect  while 
marching  round  the  deal  table  on  which  reposed 
the  temple  of  Baal.  The  words  of  the  chant 
were  not  very  illuminating,  for  they  simply 
consisted  of  a  repetition  of  the  one  word  "  Blog." 
In  fact  the  word  "  Blog  "  was  simply  a  peg  on 
which  to  hang  the  tune. 

One  evening,  while  we  were  marching  round 
the  table,  Shifner  as  high  priest,  with  the  table- 
cloth over  his  head  and  the  poker  in  his  hand, 
and  my  brother  behind  decorated  with  the  hearth- 

96 


HARROW 

rug,  the  door  suddenly  opened  and  the  head  of 
the  house,  followed  by  the  five  house  monitors, 
stalked  into  the  room,  laid  violent  hands  on  our 
temple  and  bore  it  away  in  pompous  triumph. 

Next  evening  the  whole  house  was  summoned 
into  Pupil  Room,  where  the  head  of  the  house 
made  a  speech,  or  at  any  rate  made  the  beginning 
of  a  speech,  for  he  never  got  beyond  the  opening 
sentence. 

*'  I  am  sorry  to  find,'*  he  began,  "  that  a  perni- 
cious practice  has  taken  root  in  this  house — the 
practice  of  Baal  worship " 

He  got  no  farther.  A  yell  of  laughter  went  up 
from  one  end  of  Pupil  Room  to  the  other  and 
continued  in  varying  degrees  of  intensity  till 
the  close  of  the  meeting. 

The  close  of  the  proceedings,  though  enter- 
taining in  the  extreme  for  the  laity,  held  some 
painful  moments  for  the  Baalistic  clergy,  for  we 
were  each  in  turn  called  out  and  given  "  six  " 
with  a  cane  by  the  head  of  the  house,  a  dis- 
tressingly muscular  youth.  Shifner,  as  "  high 
priest,"  received  ten. 

It  is  extraordinary  what  foolish  acts  well- 
meaning  boys  vested  with  a  little  authority  are 
capable  of.  Prior  to  the  unfortunate  speech 
above  described,  our  musical  rite  had  been  a  most 
tin-pot  affair  in  which  even  the  boys  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room  took  little  interest.  The  Pupil  Room 
tribunal,  however,  raised  us  with  a  jerk  into 
celebrity.  Next  day  we  were  all  objects  of 
popular  interest,  if  not  of  envy.     "  How's  Baal  ?  " 

H  97 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

one  grinning  boy  after  another  would  inquire. 
"  Oh,  going  strong,  thanks,"  was  our  invariable 
and  proud  reply. 

I  believe  it  was  John  Farmer  who  was  really 
responsible  for  our  being  led  away  after  strange 
gods,  as  it  was  he  who  had  inspired  us  with  the 
love  of  part-singing,  which  was  really  at  the 
bottom  of  the  whole  thing.  The  Harrow  song- 
books  of  those  days  were  full  of  old  German  and 
old  English  folk-songs  arranged  by  John  Farmer 
for  four  voices,  and  very  effectively,  I  think,  we 
used  to  perform  these  four-part  songs — all,  alas  ! 
now  crowded  out  of  the  school  repertoire.  In 
addition  to  these  simple  songs  arranged  for  four 
voices  after  the  German  fashion,  the  "  School 
Twenty,"  as  it  was  called  in  those  days,  was 
occasionally  called  upon  to  attack  more  ambitious 
harmonised  works  composed  by  Farmer  himself, 
as,  for  instance,  his  oratorio  "  Christ  and  His 
soldiers,"  which  he  produced  while  I  was  in  the 
school,  and  other  compositions  of  that  type. 
These,  after  due  practice,  we  used  to  perform  at 
end-of-term  concerts,  and  I  think  perform  them 
well.  At  any  rate  we  took  an  immense  pride  in 
our  work  and  acquired  thereby  a  taste  for  part- 
singing  which  has  certainly  lasted  me  through 
life.  From  present-day  concerts  at  Harrow  all 
part-singing  has  been  eliminated,  which  I  think  is 
a  pity,  as  a  dozen  songs  bawled  in  unison  one 
after  another  are  apt  to  be  monotonous. 

My  first  term  at  Harrow  was  in  a  small  house, 
and  all  we  small-house  boys  used  to  assemble  for 

98 


HARROW 

the  fortnightly  house-singing  in  the  music  school. 
My  first  house-singing  was  a  great  excitement  to 
me,  for  I  knew  I  should  be  tried  for  my  voice, 
and  hoped  I  might  be  selected  for  honours.  The 
first  thing  I  saw  when  I  entered  the  hall  was  a 
cheerful-looking  little  man  in  spectacles,  with  a 
round,  red,  perspiring  face,  who  was  sitting  at  the 
piano  playing  muffled  chords  with  an  abstracted 
air.  This  was  John  Farmer.  The  moment  the 
door  was  closed,  his  abstracted  manner  left  him 
and  he  began  bouncing  up  and  down  on  his  seat 
with  all  the  signs  of  that  tremendous  energy  which 
was  characteristic  of  him. 

"  Now  then,"  he  cried,  "  we'll  get  rid  of  the 
new  squeakers  first."  He  struck  a  few  tremendous 
chords  on  the  instrument,  wandered  away  into 
all  sorts  of  experimental  harmonies  and  modula- 
tions, and  finally  came  to  a  stop  with  an  emphatic 
bang.  "  The  Three  Students,"  he  bellowed,  and 
struck  the  opening  chords  of  that  good  old 
German  air.  The  whole  assemblage  sang  through 
the  five  verses,  and  then  Farmer,  after  consulting 
a  list  at  his  right  hand,  called  out  "  Atkinson 
junior."  A  small  apoplectic-looking  boy  rose 
reluctantly  to  his  feet. 

"  Now  then,  Atkinson  junior,"  Farmer  called 
out  encouragingly,  "  pipe  away  your  best.  You 
must  know  the  tune  by  this  time." 

Very  slowly  and  helpfully  Farmer  played 
through  the  tune,  while  Atkinson  junior  delivered 
himself  of  a  series  of  strangled  and  inarticulate 
gurgles. 

99 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

"  Very  good,"  Farmer  cried  cheerfully.  "  Now 
then,  Armstrong  minor,  let's  hear  what  your  idea 
of  the  tune  is."  This  was  one  of  Farmer's  standing 
jokes. 

As  we  were  taken  alphabetically,  my  name 
came  about  half-way  down  the  list,  and  by  the 
time  I  was  called  upon  I  had  the  tune  at  my 
fingers'  ends,  and,  what  is  more,  I  liked  it. 

"  Now  then,  Hamilton  junior."  I  got  up, 
feeling  nervous  but  pleased,  and  I  certainly  sang 
with  great  enjoyment  of  what  I  was  doing  : 

"  There  came  three  students  from  over  the  Rhine, 
To  a  certain  good  hostel  they  turned  them  for  wine ; 
To  a  certain  good  hostel  they  turned  them  for  wine." 

On  the  second  "  hostel  "  there  was  a  good  high 
note  at  which  I  let  drive  and  made  a  bull's-eye, 
so  to  speak.  All  Farmer  said  was  "  Next  verse," 
and  when  I  had  finished  that,  he  nodded  to  me  to 
continue.  So  I  sang  the  whole  song  through, 
feeling  particularly  pleased  with  myself,  especially 
during  the  last  verse,  which  gave  scope  for  the 
pathetic  stop  to  be  pulled  out : 

"  Dead  art  thou,  Lizbeth,  cold  lip  and  brow  ? 
Ah,  God  !  I  learn  how  I  loved  thee  now ; 
Ah,  God  !  I  learn  how  I  loved  thee  now." 

From  that  night  on,  till  my  voice  broke,  "  The 
Three  Students  "  was  my  allotted  song.  It  was 
one  of  Farmer's  customs  to  allot  a  particular 
song  to  each  boy,  and,  when  such  a  song  had  once 
been  allotted,  no  other  boy  in  the  same  house  was, 
on  any  account,  allowed  to  sing  it  as  a  solo. 

100 


HARROW 

The  chief  incident  of  interest,  however,  at  my 
first  house-singing  was  not  my  own  squeaky 
performance,  but  something  of  far  more  lasting 
and  even  historical  importance.  It  was,  naturally, 
the  first  house-singing  of  the  term  and,  during 
the  holidays,  John  Farmer  had  been  at  work  on 
a  new  school  song  with  which  he  was  much  in 
love.  The  moment  the  last  new  boy  had  been 
dismissed,  he  turned  to  the  piano  with  an  air  of 
suppressed  but  ill-concealed  excitement  and  said  : 
"  Now  I've  got  something  new  for  you  which  I 
want  you  to  learn.  You  can  learn  the  tune  first 
and  then  we'll  get  the  words  printed  for  you. 
I'll  sing  it  through  to  you."  He  struck  a  single 
chord,  which  at  that  time  meant  nothing  to  us,  but 
which  to-day  brings  every  Harrovian  to  his  feet 
as  surely  as  the  opening  notes  of  the  National 
Anthem.  And  then,  in  his  rich  baritone  voice, 
he  sang : 

"  Forty  years  on,  when  afar  and  asunder 

Parted  are  those  who  are  singing  to-day, 
When  we  look  back  and  forgetfully  wonder 

What  we  were  like  in  our  work  and  our  play, 
Then  it  may  be  there  will  often  come  o'er  you 

Glimpses  of  notes  like  the  catch  of  a  song. 
Visions  of  boyhood  will  float  then  before  you. 

Echoes  of  dreamland  shall  bear  them  along." 

I  am  thankful  to  say  that  the  first  verdict  of 
the  school  was  unanimous.  The  song  was  good. 
We  only  carried  away  with  us  fragments  of  tune 
and  scraps  of  the  words,  but  we  were  distinctly 
pleased  with  John  Farmer's  lastest  effort.  It  was 
characteristic  of  boys  that  we  gave  no  credit  to 

101 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Edward  Bowen  for  the  composition  of  the  words ; 
the  tune  was  all  we  bothered  about.  Even  I, 
though  the  author  was  my  house-master,  saw 
nothing  remarkable  in  the  words.  Forty  years 
had  to  pass  before  full  appreciation  came;  and 
then  appreciation  had  in  it  a  touch  of  melancholy. 

"  Forty  years  on,  growing  older  and  older, 

Shorter  in  wind  as  in  memory  long, 
Feeble  of  foot  and  rheumatic  of  shoulder, 

How  will  it  help  you  that  once  you  were  strong  ? 
God  give  us  '  bases  '  ^  to  guard  or  beleaguer, 

Games  to  play  out  whether  earnest  or  fun, 
Fights  for  the  fearless  and  goals  for  the  eager. 

Twenty  and  thirty  and  forty  years  on." 

The  combination  of  Edward  Bowen  and  John 
Farmer  has  become  little  less  famous,  in  its 
smaller  world,  than  that  of  Gilbert  and  Sullivan. 
Between  them,  the  two  Harrow  masters — each  a 
genius  in  his  own  way — laid  the  foundation  (and 
the  ground  and  first  floors)  of  that  wonderful 
collection  of  school  songs  in  the  possession  of  which 
Harrow  is  so  conspicuously  ahead  of  all  rivals. 
There  have  been  other  combinations — notably 
that  of  Howson  and  Eaton  Faning — which  have 
produced  songs  of  equal  merit.  "  Here,  Sir," 
and  "  Five  hundred  faces  "  will  go  down  through 
the  ages  as  two  of  the  greatest  school  songs  ever 
conceived ;  but  the  Bowen  and  Farmer  combina- 
tion, both  for  prolificness  and  for  the  sustained  high 
level  of  its  work,  must  always  stand  pre-eminent. 

We  used  to  think  Bowen's  words  a  little  mad, 
but  they  were  not  mad,  only  poetically  subtle  and 

^  The  Harrow  term  for  goals. 
102 


HARROW 

wide  of  the  obvious — too  wide,  in  some  cases, 
for  the  consumption  of  boys.  "  She  was  a 
Shepherdess  "  and  "  Fairies  "  belong  to  this  type 
of  song — each  a  gem  of  beauty  in  its  own  way 
both  as  to  words  and  music,  but  too  cryptic  for 
general  popularity.  "  Good-night,"  in  my  humble 
opinion  the  pick  of  the  whole  collection,  has  a 
veiled  sentimentality  which  probably  appeals 
more  to  Old  Harrovians  than  to  members  of  the 
school.  It  is  also  too  delicate  in  structure  to  be 
sung  in  chorus,  and  so  is  only  available  when 
some  eminent  soloist  is  on  the  spot.  Behind 
these  few  exotics  comes  the  mass  of  the  more 
popular  school  songs  with  swinging  musical  tunes 
and  clever  but  intelligible  words — "  Raleigh," 
"  October,"  "  Ducker,"  "  Byron,"  "  Queen 
Elizabeth,"  "  Giants,"  "  Come,  charge  your 
glasses,"  and  so  on.  "  Forty  Years  On,"  how- 
ever, is,  and  always  will  be,  the  School  National 
Anthem.  It  was  not  until  some  ten  years  after 
its  creation  that  it  finally  assumed  that  position, 
and  then,  not  by  any  general  vote  or  edict,  but 
by  a  gradual  consensus  of  opinion  that,  as  a 
school  song,  it  stands  alone. 

In  my  earlier  days  at  Harrow  the  two  most 
conspicuous  figures  (from  the  boy's  point  of  view) 
were  Willie  Grenfell,  afterwards  Lord  Desborough, 
and  Fred  Leyland. 

Grenfell  was  the  strong  boy  of  the  school. 
Those  who  had  the  misfortune  to  come  in  contact 
with  his  stalwart  form  in  the  "  footer "  field 
went  down  before  him  like  so  many  cornstalks 

103 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

before  the  sickle.  At  all  feats  of  strength  he  was 
unrivalled  and,  as  he  was  also  a  very  fine  long- 
distance runner,  and  in  both  elevens,  and  also 
near  the  top  of  the  school,  he  occupied  a  place 
apart  in  popular  estimation. 

Fred  Leyland  was  of  a  different  type.  Tall  and 
slight  with  very  broad  shoulders  and  a  curious 
rolling  walk,  he  arrested  the  eye  at  once,  both  on 
account  of  his  good  looks  and  because  of  the 
unusual  breadth  of  his  shoulders  in  comparison 
with  the  rest  of  his  build.  At  all  games  and  sports 
he  was  facile  princeps,  and  was,  moreover,  a  boxer 
of  considerable  merit.  His  most  famous  exploit 
in  this  direction  was  in  connection  with  the  over- 
throw of  the  great  local  pugilist,  "  Bottles." 
Harrow  in  those  days  was  infested  with  local 
bullies  of  the  prize-fighting  type,  whose  principal 
trade  lay  in  extracting  money  from  small  boys 
either  by  threats  or  persuasion,  and  in  carrying 
on  an  illicit  traffic  in  cast-off  clothes.  They  were 
a  villainous  crew,  and,  of  the  whole  villainous 
crew  the  worst  and  biggest  was  a  man  named 
Ambrose,  popularly  known  as  "  Bottles,"  on 
account  of  his  remarkable  drinking  capacity. 

Bottles  was  a  huge  brute  weighing  sixteen  stone 
and  with  a  tremendous  local  reputation  as  one  of 
the  past  lights  of  the  prize-ring.  He  was  a  foul- 
mouthed  bully  and  the  terror  not  only  of  the 
school,  but  of  the  whole  country-side.  The 
school  authorities,  after  enduring  his  unpleasant 
ways  in  silence  for  some  time,  finally  resolved 
upon    his    excommunication.     The    School    was 

104 


HARROW 

summoned  to  the  Speech  Room,  and  there  Dr. 
Butler  in  his  clear  silvery  tones  announced  to  us 
with  much  solemnity  that  "  The  man  Ambrose 
is  out  of  bounds."  The  School  did  not  receive 
the  announcement  with  the  same  solemnity.  We 
quite  understood  that  public-houses  and  certain 
private  paths  and  by-ways  were  quite  fittingly 
placed  "  out  of  bounds,"  but  the  idea  of  a  man 
being  out  of  bounds  struck  us  as  being  extra- 
ordinarily funny  and  we  laughed  accordingly. 
The  Head  Master  was  not  pleased. 

This,  however,  is  all  by  the  way.  My  real 
story  is  about  Fred  Leyland  and  Bottles.  Leyland 
and  another  were  walking  on  the  Ducker  Road 
one  day  when  Bottles  in  his  most  truculent  mood 
came  lurching  up  from  the  direction  of  the  nearest 
public-house,  and  proceeded  to  plaster  Leyland 
with  all  the  foulest  epithets  that  his  foul  mind  had 
at  command.  Leyland's  reply  was  to  hit  the  huge 
bully  straight  between  the  eyes.  A  desperate 
combat  ensued,  at  the  end  of  which  the  late 
ornament  of  the  prize-ring  was  left  practically 
senseless  in  the  ditch  by  the  side  of  the  road. 
From  that  day  on  his  dominion  fell  from  him. 
He  was  a  pricked  bubble.  Little  boys  shouted 
out  "Where's  Leyland?"  and  then  ran  away. 
The  pride  of  Bottles  was  broken  and  Harrow  knew 
him  no  more.  The  authorities  took  no  action  in 
the  matter.  It  was  no  doubt  difficult  for  them  to 
decide  whether  knocking  a  man  out  was,  strictly 
speaking,  an  infringement  of  the  "  out  of  bounds  " 
edict. 

105 


CHAPTER  VII 

MY   FATHER 

Most  of  my  holidays,  since  I  had  first  gone  to  a 
private  school,  had  been  passed  at  Eastwell,  but 
one  memorable  summer  holiday  was  spent  at 
Arisaig,  a  particularly  heavenly  spot  on  the  west 
coast  of  Inverness-shire  which  my  father,  in  con- 
junction with  my  brother-in-law.  Lord  Durham, 
rented  from  Mr.  Astley.  During  the  summer 
term  of  1873  my  brother  and  I,  to  our  ecstatic 
delight,  learned  that  Arisaig  had  once  more  been 
rented  and  that  our  summer  holidays  were  to  be 
spent  in  a  spot  which  was  brimful  of  the  delightful 
memories  of  our  first  occupation  two  years  earlier. 

In  order  to  avoid  the  ninety-six  miles  drive 
from  Kingussie,  which  in  those  days  was  the  only 
way  of  arriving  at  Arisaig  by  land,  and  also  no 
doubt  from  a  genuine  love  of  the  sea,  my  father 
bought  a  fifty-ton  steam  yacht  named  the  Nereid, 
in  which  it  was  arranged  that  he  and  my  brother 
Freddie  and  I  should  coast  up  to  Arisaig  from 
Greenock.  That  trip  still  holds  a  hallowed  niche 
in  my  memory. 

I  was  fourteen  and  my  brother  sixteen,  ages 
to  which  sleeplessness,  indigestion  or  fatigue  are 
unknown.      The   glorious   west   Highland   coast 

106 


MY    FATHER 

with  its  intricacy  of  islands  and  inlets  was  virgin 
ground  to  us,  and  its  romantic  beauties  made  an 
impression  upon  us  which  no  time  has  been  able 
to  efface.  A  copy  of  William  Black's  Land  of 
Lome  was  on  board  the  yacht,  and  the  pages  of 
this  charming  work  tended  to  strengthen  the 
impression  which  daily  grew  on  us  that  we  were 
cruising  about  in  a  fairy-land.  From  that  time 
on,  through  the  ever-mounting  decades,  the  Land 
of  Lome  has  remained  for  me  a  cross  between 
fairy-land  and  heaven.  It  comes  to  me  in  my 
dreams  as  the  one  haven  to  which  all  storm- 
tossed  cruisers  press  and  ultimately  reach.  Once 
there,  a  peace  which  passes  all  understanding 
takes  possession  of  my  sleeping  soul.  I  am  happy 
with  an  inexpressible  happiness  which  has  no 
justification  except  that  I  am  where  I  am.  The 
centresome  of  this  region  of  happiness  is  Arisaig. 
Arisaig,  as  may  be  gathered  from  the  above,  is 
no  ordinary  spot.  Imagine  a  long  but  narrow 
arm  of  the  sea  with  romantic  mountain  outlines 
on  both  sides,  cut  out  of  the  sheer  jagged  rock; 
oak  and  birch  scrub  tumbling  down  from  the 
edge  of  the  bare  rock  to  the  very  water's  edge; 
brilliant  clumps  of  bell-heather  growing  every- 
where among  the  rocks;  innumerable  islands  of 
all  shapes  and  sizes;  caves  without  end;  trans- 
lucent rock-pools  teeming  with  strange  forms 
of  life;  wonderful  sea-birds  unknown  to  more 
southern  shores;  a  tranquil  sea  patronised  by 
seals,  porpoises  and  even  occasional  whales,  and 
a  boathouse  containing  no  fewer  than  six  Thames 

107 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

rowing-boats  in  which  to  investigate  all  these 
wonders.  What  more  could  any  boy's  heart 
desire  ? 

The  house  itself  was  large,  and  we  filled  it  to 
the  brim.  Five  Lambton  boys  and  the  two  eldest 
girls  (now  Lady  Pembroke  and  the  Duchess  of 
Leeds),  four  Hamilton  brothers,  my  father  and 
mother  and  George  Durham,  with  their  invited 
guests,  left  little  room  to  spare. 

We  were  rich  in  the  matter  of  yachts  that 
summer,  for,  in  addition  to  the  Nereid,  George 
Durham  had  his  own  yacht,  the  Beatrix,  a 
schooner  of  160  tons,  and  another  brother-in-law, 
Lichfield,  who  was  my  father's  guest,  arrived  in 
his  square-rigged  yacht,  the  Cyclone,  of  about 
the  same  size. 

The  Nereid,  in  which  we  had  made  our  never- 
to-be-forgotten  trip  up  the  coast,  was  a  comfort- 
able and  confidential  little  boat,  but  as  crazy  as 
Bedlam  among  anything  but  Lilliputian  waves. 
My  father  knew  her  for  a  bad  sea-boat  when  he 
bought  her,  but,  none  the  less,  he  determined, 
during  our  stay  at  Arisaig,  to  attempt  in  her  the 
passage  to  the  Hebrides  across  the  Minch.  This 
trip  was  destined  to  bring  some  of  us  very  near 
the  gates  of  heaven.  We  started  in  fair  weather, 
but  when  about  half-way  across  the  Minch  were 
met  by  a  furious  gale  from  the  north-west.  The 
waves  ran  mountains  high,  and  it  was  clear  that 
our  only  chance  of  ever  seeing  the  Hebrides,  or 
indeed  any  other  land  this  side  of  Jordan,  lay  in 
keeping  the  Nereides  nose  straight  to  the  waves. 

108 


MY    FATHER 

For  some  little  while  after  the  bursting  of  the 
storm  all  went  well,  or,  at  any  rate,  nothing  went 
very  badly.  Then,  suddenly,  to  our  horror,  we 
saw  the  skipper,  who  had  so  far  been  at  the  wheel, 
fling  himself  down  on  his  knees  on  the  deck  and 
commence  an  impassioned  appeal  to  the  Virgin, 
leaving  the  wheel  to  take  care  of  itself  and  the 
nose  of  the  vessel  to  do  as  it  would.  The  Nereid 
was  a  small  boat  and  it  took  my  father  but  three 
strides  to  reach  the  derelict  wheel  and  seize  the 
spokes.  For  half  a  minute  or  so  I  believe  it  was 
touch  and  go  with  us,  for  the  boat's  bow  had 
fallen  perceptibly  away  from  the  waves  and  the 
lee  gunwale  was  very  near  under  water;  but 
after  a  few  desperate  and  nerve-racking  plunges, 
she  came  back  to  her  true  course  and  the  immi- 
nence of  the  danger  was  past.  The  situation, 
however,  was  still  sufficiently  terrifying,  for  the 
Nereid  had  to  stand  almost  on  end  to  climb  the 
giant  waves  that  raced  down  on  her,  and  when 
her  nose  plunged  down  on  the  far  side,  it  seemed 
as  though  the  next  wave  must  inevitably  over- 
whelm her.  By  this  time  the  two  members  of 
the  crew  had  joined  the  skipper  in  his  impromptu 
service,  and  all  three  rolled  about  on  their  knees 
alternately  howling  and  offering  all  sorts  of  strange 
bribes  to  the  Virgin  if  she  would  come  to  their 
aid. 

Owing  either  to  in-breeding,  or  the  emigration 
of  the  fittest,  or  to  the  enervating  climate  in  which 
they  live,  the  natives  of  west  Inverness-shire  are  a 
very  inferior  race  to  the  Aberdonians  or  even  to 

109 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

their  brethren  in  eastern  Inverness-shire.  Round 
Arisaig  they  are  almost  exclusively  Roman 
Catholics. 

To  me,  a  small,  drenched  and  inexperienced  boy 
of  fourteen,  it  seemed  that  afternoon  that  the 
end  was  only  a  matter  of  moments,  for  nothing  is 
so  infectious  as  panic,  and  there  was  ranting  and 
perspiring  panic  on  the  deck  at  my  very  feet. 
But  terrified  as  I  undoubtedly  was  (and  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  own  that  I  was  terrified),  I  was 
not  so  terrified  as  not  to  be  filled  with  pride  at 
the  sight  of  my  magnificent  father  as  he  stood 
with  quivering  nostril  and  flashing  eye,  gripping 
in  his  muscular  grasp  the  controlling  spokes,  the 
correct  handling  of  which  meant  life  or  death 
to  us.  I  remember  thinking  how  like  one  of  the 
Vikings  of  old  he  looked,  with  his  erect  head  and 
his  thick  pointed  beard  flattened  upon  his  chest 
by  the  gale. 

My  father  was  physically  one  of  the  bravest 
men  I  have  known.  In  face  of  most  of  the  dangers 
that  freeze  other  men's  marrow  he  was  utterly 
fearless.  In  two  spots  only  was  his  nerve  vulner- 
able, and  they  were  two  very  ridiculous  spots. 
He  was  terrified  of  a  horse  and  terrified  of  a  dog. 
But  nothing  else  frightened  him.  On  the  occa- 
sion of  our  passage  of  the  Minch,  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  his  nerve  and  promptitude  saved 
the  lives  of  all  on  board.  Luckily  the  engineer, 
a  Lowland  Scot  named  Alison,  also  kept  his  head 
and  his  nerve,  and  these  two  between  them  pulled 
us  through. 

110 


MY    FATHER 

Of  the  human  element  my  father  had  no  fear, 
and,  as  he  was  extremely  pugnacious  by  nature, 
the  wonder  is  that  he  did  not  get  into  serious 
trouble ;  for  in  latter  days,  forgetful  of  his  advanc- 
ing years,  he  was  always  eager  (a  little  too  eager) 
to  administer  personal  chastisement  to  any  who 
in  his  opinion,  outraged  the  laws  of  chivalry, 
even  though  they  were  of  half  his  age.  In  the 
days  of  his  youth  he  was  a  very  useful  boxer,  and 
a  particularly  hard  hitter  owing  to  an  abnormal 
development  of  the  dorsal  muscle  behind  the 
shoulder-blade.  During  his  school  days  at  Harrow 
he  fought  a  memorable  and  victorious  fight  against 
a  much  bigger  boy  than  himself  which  lasted  for 
an  hour  and  a  quarter  in  the  cloisters  under  the 
old  Speech  Room.  As  a  young  man  he  was  very 
lucky  to  come  successfully  out  of  a  rash  encounter 
(of  the  knight-errant  type)  with  a  certain  damsel- 
baiting  ogre  who  turned  out  to  be  a  professional 
boxer.  It  happened  in  this  way.  My  father  saw 
a  blackguard  insulting  a  girl  on  the  beach  at 
Brighton  and,  true  to  his  instincts,  he  leaped  in 
hot-headed  to  the  rescue,  and  almost  before  he 
knew  it,  found  himself  engaged  in  furious  battle 
with  an  assailant  who  was  knocking  him  all  over 
the  place.  Finding  that  he  was  out-pointed,  my 
father  realised  that  his  only  chance  was  to  make 
use  of  his  superior  agility.  He  retreated  under 
a  shower  of  blows  and  a  torrent  of  invective  to 
where  the  shingle  sloped  up  steeply.  Once  he 
was  established  on  this  slope  with  his  face  to  the 
sea,  the  battle  was  his.     His  opponent's  blows 

111 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

had  no  force,  for  the  shingle  sHpped  away  from 
under  his  feet  every  time  he  tried  to  hit,  whereas 
my  father  got  an  admirable  purchase  for  the 
delivery  of  his  downward  punches.  The  pro- 
fessional stuck  gamely  to  it,  but  by  no  means 
could  he  succeed  in  manoeuvring  himself  above 
my  father,  who  was  by  far  the  younger  and  more 
active  man.  Finally,  his  exertions  reduced  him 
to  breathless  impotence  and  my  father  was  able 
to  hammer  him  about  as  he  pleased. 

When  the  passage  of  time  had  robbed  his  natural 
weapons  of  their  old  vigour,  my  father  took  to 
the  sword  as  an  arm  of  offence.  He  always  slept 
with  a  rapier  at  his  bedside,  and,  at  the  slightest 
hint  of  burglars  downstairs,  he  would  seize  this 
weapon  and  face  the  unknown  below  with  a 
courage  which  never  failed  to  excite  my  admira- 
tion. His  hunts  were  never  successful,  which 
was  perhaps  just  as  well,  as  a  rapier  is  but  a  poor 
affair  against  a  revolver. 

When  I  was  about  fifteen,  an  incident  occurred, 
at  the  recollection  of  which  I  sometimes  laugh 
still.  I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  Hampden 
House  one  morning,  when  on  the  doorstep  I 
encountered  a  stranger  who  was  evidently  just 
about  to  ring  the  bell.  I  asked  him  in  a 
friendly  way  what  I  could  do  for  him,  and 
was  informed  that  he  wished  to  see  my  sister. 

Lady  .     In  response  to  further  inquiries  he 

informed  me  that  his  name  was  Costello.  I  sent 
a  servant  to  let  my  sister  know  of  Mr.  Costello's 
wish  to  see  her,  and,  while  awaiting  her  reply,  I 

112 


Pholo.  Chancellor.  Dublin. 


Jaimes,   1st  Duke  of  Ahlrcorx. 


MY    FATHER 

exchanged  civil  banalities  with  the  visitor,  who 
was  unctuously  polite,  but  who  gave  signs,  I 
fancied,  of  a  certain  nervousness.  In  the  midst 
of  an  appreciative  remark  on  the  subject  of  the 
recent  fine  weather,  I  chanced  to  look  round  and, 
to  my  amazement,  saw  my  father  advancing  with 
giant  strides  down  the  hall  with  his  bared  rapier 
grasped  menacingly  in  his  right  hand.  The 
entrance  hall  at  Hampden  House  is  a  long  narrow 
room  which  runs  parallel  to  the  street,  so  that 
Mr.  Costello,  who  was  nearer  the  street  than  I 
was,  had  no  intimation  of  the  approaching  storm 
till  the  threatening  figure  of  my  father  suddenly 
filled  the  doorway  and  rudely  cut  short  his  pre- 
diction that  rain  might  be  expected  before  night. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  my  friendly  conversa- 
tionalist was  running  down  the  street  as  though 
all  the  furies  of  hell  were  at  his  heels.  My  father 
stood  majestically  in  the  doorway  for  a  minute  or 
so,  like  a  dog  whose  antagonist  has  turned  tail,  and 
then  stalked  slowly  back  the  way  he  had  come. 

It  appeared  that  Costello,  who  was  a  Dublin 
man,  imagined  himself  in  love  with  my  sister, 
whom  he  had  never  spoken  to,  but  had  seen  at 
some  State  function.  From  that  day  on  he  had 
pestered  her  with  letters  of  which,  of  course,  she 
took  not  the  slightest  notice ;  but  he  had  never 
before  attempted  to  address  her  personally.  My 
father  happened  to  be  in  the  room  when  the 
servant  brought  the  message  announcing  the 
arrival  in  the  flesh  of  this  persistent  but  invisible 
suitor,  and  he  at  once  realised  that  here  was  the 

I  113 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

long-sought-for  opportunity  for  the  use  of  his 
sword.  I  may  add  that  Mr.  Costello — who,  it 
turned  out,  was  quite  mad — did  not  call  again. 

When  my  father  went  to  Dublin  for  the  second 
time  in  1874,  he  found  an  outlet  for  the  physical 
energy  which  was  still  so  conspicuous  in  him 
in  the  game  of  cricket — a  curious  development  in 
a  man  well  over  sixty  who  had  so  far  only  a 
nodding  acquaintance  with  the  game.  So  great 
was  his  sudden  enthusiasm  for  cricket  that  affairs 
of  State  had,  to  a  certain  extent,  to  shape  them- 
selves so  as  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the  game. 
All  the  A.D.C.'s  were  selected  for  their  cricket 
attainments  rather  than  for  softer  social  qualities. 
Ireland  was  scoured  for  cricketing  parsons  to 
swell  the  list  of  official  chaplains.  This  search 
was  not  on  the  whole  a  success,  but  one  parson 
of  the  name  of  Bjrrne  was  unearthed  who  was 
really  a  very  effective  bowler. 

Another  quasi-clerical  bowler  on  the  list  of 
honorary  chaplains  was  the  late  Prof.  Mahaffy  of 
universal  renown  and  equal  popularity.  Mahaffy 
was  the  only  bowler  I  ever  knew  who  preferred 
a  wet  ball.  Rumour  had  it  that,  in  very  dry 
weather,  he  had  a  bucket  of  water  placed  where 
the  ordinary  bowler  has  his  sawdust.  Whether 
this  was  really  so  is  to  be  doubted,  but  I  can 
testify  to  the  fact  that,  after  rain,  he  would  deliber- 
ately roll  the  ball  in  the  wet  grass  before  each 
delivery. 

Having  satisfied  himself  that  his  personal  staff 
was  well  selected,  my  father,  who  did  nothing  by 

114 


MY    FATHER 

halves,  signalised  his  last  year  of  office  by  engaging 
Wheeler,  the  crack  Leicestershire  bat,  and  Shaw 
and  Morley,  the  two  famous  Nottingham  bowlers, 
to  be  at  the  service  of  the  Viceregal  Lodge  during 
the  month  of  August.  Thus  equipped,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  issue  challenges  on  behalf  of  the  Vice- 
regal Lodge  team  to  the  Na  Shuler,  Phoenix  and 
Leinster  clubs — all  matches  to  be  played  on  the 
Lodge  ground. 

During  the  reigns  of  less  enthusiastic  Viceroys, 
the  custom  had  been  for  the  Zingari  team,  which 
was  housed  at  the  Lodge  during  its  August  tour, 
to  play  these  Irish  clubs.  It  was  a  new  and 
audacious  departure  for  the  Lodge  itself  to  chal- 
lenge such  formidable  teams,  and  at  first  the 
challenge  was  looked  upon  as  a  joke.  When, 
however,  it  became  known  that  the  Viceregal 
team  included  Shaw  and  Morley,  the  two  best 
bowlers  in  England,  it  was  realised  that  the  joke 
would  probably  be  on  the  other  side;  and  so 
indeed  it  turned  out,  for  the  two  Nottingham 
bowlers  proved  absolutely  irresistible,  even  to 
such  redoubtable  players  as  Trotter  and  Kempster 
of  Trinity  College,  and  young  Willie  Hone. 

In  anticipation  of  these  matches,  in  which  he 
always  took  part,  it  was  my  father's  habit  to 
practise  regularly  at  the  nets  for  two  hours  every 
day  to  the  bowling  of  Wheeler  and  various 
members  of  the  Staff.  Curiously  enough  for  a 
man  who  had  only  taken  up  cricket  when  he 
was  sixty-three,  he  could  play  fast  bowling  very 
fairly  well.     Slows,   however,   or  anything  with 

115 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

a  pronounced  break,  no  matter  how  obvious, 
utterly  defeated  him. 

The  last  match  of  the  1876  season  was  advertised 
as  Viceregal  Lodge  and  Staff  v.  the  Rest.  In  this 
match  Shaw  and  Morley  had  perforce  to  be  in- 
cluded among  the  Rest,  as  by  no  stretch  of 
imagination  could  they  be  interpreted  as  members 
of  the  Staff.  The  result,  as  may  be  supposed, 
was  the  utter  devastation  of  the  Viceregal  wickets. 
When  the  sixth  wicket  had  fallen  for  a  very 
inglorious  total,  a  murmur  of  excitement  ran 
round  the  ground  as  my  father  was  seen  stalking, 
bat  in  hand,  out  of  the  dressing  tent  towards  the 
centre  of  the  ground.  The  local  umpire  placed 
his  hand  to  his  mouth  and,  in  an  audible  whisper, 
called  out :  "  Whist,  boys ;  it's  his  Excellency. 
Bowl  saft  now."  The  first  over  came  from  Shaw. 
Alfred  Shaw,  who  bore  a  marked  resemblance  to 
the  late  King  Edward,  was,  by  general  consent, 
the  foremost  bowler  of  his  day.  It  was  said  that, 
for  a  bet,  he  had  once  pitched  six  consecutive 
balls  on  a  half-crown  placed  ten  feet  from  the  far 
wicket.  He  could  break  both  ways  and  vary  his 
pace  without  any  perceptible  alteration  of  his 
action. 

On  the  momentous  occasion  in  question,  Shaw 
played  his  part  nobly.  Four  consecutive  balls, 
well  pitched  up,  and  just  wide  of  the  off  stump, 
were  all  returned  by  my  father  in  correct  style  to 
mid-off.  The  last  ball  of  the  over  was  a  slow 
long-hop  to  leg,  off  which  my  father  scored  a  single 
amidst  much  loyal  applause.     He  was  then  called 

116 


MY    FATHER 

upon  to  face  Morley.  Now  Morley  had  about  as 
much  idea  of  "  bowUng  saft  "  as  he  had  of  playing 
the  harp.  He  was  a  tall,  lithe,  athletic  young 
fellow  with  an  utterly  expressionless  countenance. 
His  style  of  bowling  was  to  take  a  short  run  and 
then,  with  his  left  arm,  deliver  a  bumpy  ball,  at 
an  appalling  pace,  straight  at  the  batsman's  body. 
The  ball  generally  broke  back  six  inches  and 
scattered  the  bails;  if  it  did  not,  it  generally 
disabled  the  batsman.  Morley  seldom  bowled 
through  an  innings  without  stretching  out  some- 
one on  the  sward. 

On  the  historical  occasion  in  question,  Morley, 
it  must  be  owned,  did  his  best,  which  meant  that 
he  bowled  well  up  and  just  wide  of  the  off  stump. 
Try  as  he  would,  however,  he  could  not  rid  his 
deliveries  of  that  disastrous  break  back.  The 
Lord-Lieutenant  lunged  forward  in  approved 
style,  but  he  made  no  allowance  for  the  break, 
and  the  first  ball  went  straight  into  Willie  Hone's 
hands  at  point.  Now  Willie  Hone  was  the  best 
field  in  Ireland.  No  ball,  however  hard  struck, 
ever  succeeded  in  evading  those  two  prehensile 
hands.  It  was  therefore  with  a  gasp  of  astonish- 
ment, mingled  with  relief,  that  the  assembled 
crowd  saw  Hone  first  fumble  the  ball,  then  recover 
it  again  with  a  desperate  effort,  and  finally  stamp 
in  bitter  disappointment  as  the  ball  eluded  his 
grasp  and  fell  to  earth.  Tremendous  cheering 
followed  on  a  realisation  of  this  miraculous  escape, 
and  the  Lord-Lieutenant  once  more  faced  the 
bowler.     Morley,    being    an    absolute    machine, 

117 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

delivered  once  more  exactly  the  same  ball  as 
before,  with  exactly  the  same  result,  and  once 
more  Willie  Hone,  after  a  display  of  juggling 
worthy  of  Cinquevalli,  let  the  ball  slip  through 
his  fingers  to  the  ground.  This  time  the  Lord- 
Lieutenant's  escape  was  received  in  thoughtful 
silence.  All  might  now  have  been  well  had 
Morley  been  capable  of  delivering  some  other  form 
of  innocuous  ball,  but  he  was  not,  and  once  more 
my  father,  with  exactly  the  same  stroke,  played 
the  ball  straight  into  Hone's  hands,  who,  this 
time,  retained  it,  with  a  joyful  expression  of 
countenance  which  seemed  to  say  :  "  Well,  thank 
heaven,  I've  managed  to  hold  it  at  last." 

My  father  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the 
efforts  made  by  both  bowlers  and  fields  to  pro- 
long his  stay  at  the  wicket,  and  attributed  his 
failure  entirely  to  Hone's  exceptional  skill  at 
point. 

That  year  I  had  been  tried  several  times  for 
the  Harrow  Eleven,  but  without  success,  and 
another  twelve  months  had  to  pass  before  I  got 
my  School  flannels.  But  for  a  happy  accident, 
I  might  even  then  have  been  found  wanting. 
The  accident  was  this.  Harrow  cricketers  of 
the  day  were  greatly  addicted  to  a  straddling 
"  stance,"  with  the  legs  wide  apart  and  the  bat 
held  short,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  Eton  style, 
which  was  upright  with  the  feet  close  together. 
Two  notable  exponents  of  the  Harrow  style  were 
Walter  Hadow  and  A.  J.  Webbe,  both  brilliant 
cricketers,  the  latter  unquestionably  the  best  boy 

118 


MY    FATHER 

bat  of  his  decade;  and,  with  two  such  successful 
examples  before  my  eyes,  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
do  better  than  follow  suit.  Boys  are  essentially 
imitative.  We  had  no  real  cricket- coach  at 
Harrow  in  those  days.  Old  Fred  Ponsonby  and 
Bob  Grimston  took  a  lot  of  trouble  over  our 
instruction,  but  no  one  paid  much  attention  to 
their  advice,  for  they  were  both  septuagenarians 
(or,  at  any  rate,  we  thought  they  were)  and 
neither  had  any  cricket  reputation  behind  him. 
Old  Bob  always  wore  a  tall  hat  with  a  flat  brim 
and  a  strap  under  the  chin,  while  Fred  Ponsonby 
affected  a  billy- cock  three  sizes  too  big  for  him. 
Both  were  apostles  of  the  stone-wall-defence  style 
of  batting  and  almost  shed  tears  when  a  boundary 
was  hit.  Hartley  and  Pollard,  the  two  profes- 
sionals attached  to  the  school,  coached  us  a  bit, 
but  they  were  both  old  and  indolent,  and  let  us 
go  pretty  much  our  own  way.  What  then  could 
a  small  boy  do  but  imitate  his  seniors  and  betters  ? 
I  accordingly  adopted  the  straddling  stance,  but 
with  a  marked  absence  of  success,  for  "  stone- 
walling," as  it  afterwards  turned  out,  was  not  my 
metier  at  all. 

Among  the  Viceregal  house-party  during  the 
cricket  season  of  1876  was  Walter  Forbes,  the 
Eton  fast  bowler,  who  had  captained  his  school 
eleven  that  year  and  had  scored  113  against 
Harrow  at  Lord's.  This  last  achievement, 
coupled  with  his  high  reputation  as  a  fast 
bowler,  was  quite  sufficient  for  my  father,  who, 
staunch   Harrovian   though   he   was,    could   not 

119 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

resist  the  temptation  of  enlisting  young  Forbes' 
services  for  the  Viceregal  team.  In  this  way  he 
and  I  became  fast  and  abiding  friends.  To  me 
came  Walter  Forbes  one  day  while  I  was  batting 
at  the  nets  and  said  :  "  Why  don't  you  stand 
straight  up,  hold  your  bat  at  the  end  and  make 
the  most  of  your  height?  "  I  had  no  answer  to 
offer  except  that  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  to 
do  so.  "  Well,  do  it  now,"  he  said;  and  I  did, 
with  results  which  astonished  no  one  more  than 
myself. 

Some  five  years  later,  while  playing  one  day  at 
Escrick,  I  chanced  to  make  a  good  score  against 
a  team  which  included  my  late  cricket  tutor.  It 
was  a  very  hot  day,  and  Walter  Forbes  bowled 
through  most  of  the  innings  with  his  usual  untir- 
ing energy.  When  I  had  passed  my  century,  he 
plaintively  mopped  his  perspiring  brow  and  said  : 
"  If  I  could  have  foreseen  this,  Ernest,  I  should 
certainly  never  have  shown  you  the  proper  way 
to  hold  your  bat." 

It  is  impossible  to  leave  the  subject  of  Walter 
Forbes  without  some  reference  to  his  extra- 
ordinary throwing  powers.  Although  nearly  fifty 
years  have  passed  since  he  threw  the  cricket  ball 
132  yards  2  feet  in  the  Eton  Sports,  that  record 
has  never  been  broken,  nor  does  it  seem  likely 
that  it  ever  will  be.  He  threw  with  a  very  low 
arm  and,  when  not  out  for  a  big  throw,  with  an 
amazingly  low  trajectory.  As  a  field  in  the  long 
country  he  was  unrivalled.  From  the  remotest 
corner  of  the  ground,  the  ball  was  sent  back  to 

120 


MY    FATHER 

within  an  inch  of  the  bails  with  what  appeared  to 
be  a  mere  flick  of  the  wrist.  The  only  cricketer  I 
have  ever  seen  who  could  approach  Walter  Forbes 
in  rapidity  of  return  is  A.  P.  Chapman,  the  Cam- 
bridge cricketer.  Both  have  very  much  the  same 
way  of  picking  up  the  ball  and  returning  it  all 
in  one  motion.  It  used  to  be  my  great  delight 
to  get  Walter  Forbes  to  throw  stones  for  my  edifi- 
cation. At  this  exercise  he  outstripped  all  com- 
petitors even  more  conspicuously  than  with  the 
cricket  ball.  His  unusually  low  delivery  had  the 
effect  of  keeping  a  thin  flat  stone  absolutely  hori- 
zontal and  with  a  very  low  but  gradually  soaring 
flight,  till  it  dropped  to  earth  (or  water)  some 
200  yards  away — a  really  beautiful  sight  to 
witness. 

Although  I  was  the  only  member  of  the  family 
to  get  into  the  Harrow  eleven,  my  brother  George 
was  twelfth  man  in  his  year,  and  in  this  capacity 
was  indirectly  responsible  for  the  loudest  burst 
of  hilarity  that,  in  all  probability,  has  ever  shaken 
the  confines  of  Lord's  Cricket  Ground.  People 
used  at  that  time  to  drive  into  the  ground  and 
remain  seated  in  their  carriages,  from  which  the 
horses  were,  of  course,  withdrawn,  and  under  which 
hampers  of  provisions  were  stored.  About  one 
o'clock  one  day,  when  the  contents  of  these 
hampers  had  been  brought  to  light,  my  mother 
turned  to  the  footman  in  attendance  and  said  : 
"  William,  will  you  find  Lord  George  and  tell  him 
luncheon  is  ready."  The  footman  disappeared 
and,   about  a  minute  later,   a  roar  of  delirious 

121 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

laughter  went  up  to  heaven  from  five  thousand 
throats,  as  a  stiff  figure  in  silk  stockings,  powder 
and  plush  was  seen  slowly  making  its  way  across 
the  ground  in  the  direction  of  "  Short  slip,"  to 
whom  he  bowed  and  then  returned  the  way  he 
had  come,  quite  unmoved  by  the  boisterous 
greetings  of  the  crowd.  One  of  the  eleven  had 
been  suddenly  taken  ill  and  the  twelfth  man  had 
been  unexpectedly  called  upon  to  take  his  place. 
It  was  many  a  day  before  my  unfortunate  brother 
was  allowed  to  forget  the  incident. 

It  may  come  as  a  surprise  to  the  rising  genera- 
tion to  learn  that  in  those  days,  Harrow  was  almost 
always  victorious  at  Lord's.  The  selection  of  the 
team  was  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  captain 
of  the  eleven,  with  whose  freedom  of  action  no 
master  would  have  ventured,  or  even  wished,  to 
interfere.  The  only  point  aimed  at  was  to  get 
the  eleven  best  players  in  the  school  to  fight 
Eton.  Now,  alas  !  it  is  very  much  otherwise, 
and  Harrow  almost  always  loses. 


122 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VICEREGAL     DAYS 

By  the  date  of  my  father's  second  term  of 
office  as  Lord-Lieutenant  I  was  old  enough  to 
take  a  certain  dehght  in  the  pomp  and  panoply 
of  Viceregal  life,  and  was  yet  too  young  to  be 
fully  conscious  of  the  strong  flavour  of  Gilbert 
and  Sullivan  which  lay  at  the  back  of  it  all.  I 
only  realised  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  whole  thing 
in  later  years  when  I  saw  others  enacting  the  part 
of  Viceroy.  My  father  had  a  magnificent  presence 
and  a  wonderful  dignity  which  was  free  from  the 
smallest  trace  of  pomposity.  He  was  also  the 
handsomest  old  man  I  have  ever  seen  and,  with 
these  advantages,  was  able  to  carry  off  a  situation 
which,  in  less  gifted  hands,  was  apt  to  raise  a 
smile. 

Viceregal  Lodge  life  was  really  very  jolly 
country-house  life,  with  the  imitation  purple 
occasionally  assumed  for  State  functions.  One 
part  of  the  menage,  however,  which  really  was 
worthy  of  admiration  and  which,  in  fact,  could 
compare  favourably  with  any  royal  equipage, 
was  the  stables,  presided  over  by  that  most 
delightful  of  Dublin's  permanent  officials,  Colonel 
Frank  Foster.  My  father  had  always  affected 
big    black-brown    horses,     but,    naturally,    the 

123 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

exigencies  of  Viceregal  life  called  for  many  more 
of  these  than  were  required  at  home.  No  fewer 
than  twenty-two  of  these  16.2  black-browns, 
hardly  distinguishable  one  from  the  other  and  all 
supplied  by  East  of  Curzon  Street,  stood  in  the 
Viceregal  stables,  and  it  was  truly  a  brave  sight 
to  see  them  parade  for  some  State  function. 
The  first  two  carriages  had  four  horses  each, 
ridden  by  postilions,  while  those  that  followed 
were  drawn  by  pairs  driven  by  coachmen.  Two 
outriders  preceded  the  leading  carriage.  The 
claret-coloured  carriages  drawn  by  the  big  black 
horses;  the  heavy  silver  harness  with  its  Knight 
of  the  Garter  embossments,  and  the  dark  blue 
and  white  rosettes  at  the  horses'  ears,  really 
formed  a  most  effective  spectacle  and  one  of  which 
I  never  tired.  My  father's  carriage  turnout  was 
reputed  the  best  that  Dublin  had  ever  seen. 

Another  department  of  Viceregal  life  in  which 
my  father  was  said  to  excel  all  rival  Lord- 
Lieutenants  was  in  that  of  public  speaking.  His 
speeches  were  always  short,  and  were  invariably 
committed  to  memory,  for  he  had  not,  I  think,  any 
natural  fluency  of  speech.  They  were  perhaps  a 
little  grandiloquent,  but  not  more  so  than  was 
suited  to  his  style  and  appearance.  He  spoke  very 
slowly,  in  sonorous  and  vibrating  tones,  standing 
very  upright  and  pivoting  first  to  right  and  then 
to  left  upon  his  heels.  It  was  a  tour  de  force — 
wholly  artificial,  if  you  please,  but  none  the  less 
tremendously  effective  in  his  hands.  Imitators 
beware  I 

124 


VICEREGAL    DAYS 

My  first  lessons  in  riding  over  fences  were  given 
me  in  those  days  with  the  Ward  Union  and 
Kildare  hounds.  The  meets  of  the  Meath  were 
a  Httle  out  of  reach  of  the  Viceregal  Lodge  except 
by  train.  My  instructor  and  guardian,  during 
these  hunting  expeditions,  was  one  Cassidy,  a 
Dublin  horse-breaker,  and  my  instructions  were 
never  to  jump  any  fence  except  in  the  wake  of 
Cassidy.  At  these  restrictions  my  youthful  spirit 
chafed,  for  Cassidy,  doubtless  weighed  down  by  a 
sense  of  his  responsibility,  was  prudence  itself, 
and  refused  to  negotiate  any  fence  which  offered 
exciting  possibilities.  As  though  to  make  up 
for  this  enforced  restraint,  he  used  to  regale  me, 
on  the  way  home,  with  tales  of  his  desperate 
exploits  in  the  saddle  when  not  handicapped  by 
the  charge  of  a  Viceregal  youth.  Among  other 
startling  feats  which  he  claimed  to  have  per- 
formed was  the  following  : — In  those  days  (and 
possibly  still)  along  the  edge  of  the  straight  road 
which  runs  through  the  Phoenix  Park  from  the 
Dublin  Gate  to  the  Castleknock  Gate  was  a  series 
of  terrific  obstacles  consisting  of  horizontal  trees 
fixed  on  uprights  about  4  feet  6  inches  from  the 
ground.  These  obstacles  had  been  built  for  the 
purpose  of  preventing  horsemen  from  galloping 
along  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  and 
thoroughly  well  did  they  fulfil  this  purpose. 
Never  have  I  seen  one  of  them  jumped,  or  even 
attempted,  by  the  most  daring  riders.  Cassidy, 
however,  assured  me  that,  for  a  bet,  he  had  once 
jumped  the  whole  series  (there  must  have  been 

125 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

thirty  or  forty  of  them)  from  gate  to  gate.  I 
firmly  believed  the  tale  and  was  for  ever  m-ging 
him  to  repeat  the  performance  (or  even  a  part  of 
it)  for  my  special  edification.  Unfortunately, 
however,  the  wonderful  horse  on  which  he  had 
done  the  deed  was  always  ailing  on  the  particular 
day  fixed  for  the  exhibition,  so  that  my  curiosity 
remained  unsatisfied. 

The  mention  of  daring  riders  in  connection  with 
the  Viceregal  Lodge  and  the  Phoenix  Park  naturally 
conjures  up  memories  of  Bay  Middleton.  Bay  was 
not  on  my  father's  staff,  having  been  adjudged 
rather  too  lively  for  the  post,  but  he  was  a 
perpetual  visitor  at  the  Lodge  during  the  cricket 
season,  and  always  played  for  the  staff  by  virtue 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  A.D.C.  to  Lord 
Spencer  during  the  preceding  regime.  He  was  a 
very  useful  bowler,  but  his  chief  value  to  the  team 
lay  in  his  amazing  vitality  and  his  unfailing  fund 
of  humour.  Under  the  influence  of  strong  excite- 
ment, however,  he  occasionally  became  a  little 
unmanageable,  which  was  the  reason  for  his 
exclusion  from  my  father's  staff.  He  had  been 
trepanned  as  the  result  of  a  bad  fall  out  hunting 
and,  ever  after,  was  subject  to  moments  of 
pronounced  excitability.  As  he  was  extremely 
strong  and  muscular,  and  inclined  to  be  a  little 
dangerous  when  excited,  the  prudent  avoided 
exciting  him.  The  young  and  foolish,  however, 
were  often  tempted  to  do  the  opposite,  and  not 
infrequently  had  cause  to  regret  that  they  had  not 
let  sleeping  dogs  lie, 

126 


VICEREGAL    DAYS 

One  youth,  however,  registered  so  distinct  a 
score  over  Bay  that  the  story  must  be  told,  even 
though  not  for  the  first  time. 

It  was  in  Lord  Spencer's  day.  Bay  was  in 
waiting,  and  noted  with  pain  that  a  certain  youth 
was  in  the  habit  of  appearing  in  the  A.D.C.'s  room, 
after  the  ladies  had  retired  to  bed,  in  his  evening 
tail-coat,  instead  of  in  the  orthodox  smoking- 
jacket.  In  those  days  men  always  smoked  in 
special  costume,  the  idea  being  that  the  smell  of 
tobacco  was  so  offensive  to  the  fair  sex  that  even 
the  coat  of  a  man  who  had  smoked  on  the  preced- 
ing day  was  contaminated.  The  older  generation 
even  went  to  the  length  of  crowning  themselves 
with  curious  be-tasselled  velvet  caps  in  order  to 
prevent  the  nuptial  pillow  from  being  desecrated 
by  any  of  the  noxious  fumes.  Smoking,  in 
fact,  in  those  days,  was  little  removed  from  a 
secret  vice.  Bay  Middleton,  in  deference  to 
these  established  ideas,  pointed  out  the  magnitude 
of  his  offence  to  the  erring  youth,  but  without 
any  marked  success,  for,  on  the  following  night, 
he  again  appeared  in  his  evening  clothes. 

"Look  here,  young  fellow,"  said  Bay;  "I 
have  warned  you  once  already  about  coming  to 
the  smoking-room  in  those  clothes.  If  it  occurs 
again,  you  will  be  sorry."  The  youth  accepted 
his  rebuke  mildly  and  the  party  broke  up  and 
went  to  bed.  Next  night,  to  everyone's  nervous 
surprise,  the  offence  was  once  more  repeated. 
"  Very  well,  my  young  friend,"  said  the  now 
thoroughly  aroused  Bay;    "you  have  had  fair 

127 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

warning.  Now  you  must  pay  the  penalty." 
With  these  words,  he  seized  the  Ump  and  unresist- 
ing youth  by  the  collar  and  deliberately  cut  the 
offending  coat  to  ribbons  with  a  penknife.  The 
culprit  slunk  abashed  towards  the  door. 

"  Good-night,  all,"  he  said.  "  By  the  way. 
Bay,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  it  was  your  own 
coat  that  you've  been  cutting  up.  I  changed 
into  it  just  before  I  came  down." 

Bay,  who  was  one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the 
world,  took  the  joke  in  excellent  part,  and  was  one 
of  the  first  to  join  in  the  laugh  against  himself. 

He  had  the  most  marvellous  control  over  his 
facial  muscles.  I  have  seen  him  stand  in  a  crowd 
at  race-meetings  and  other  gatherings  and,  in  a 
vibrant  voice,  deliver  himself  of  the  most  offensive 
personal  remarks  at  the  expense  of  his  near 
neighbours.  When  these  turned  round  glaring 
blood  and  war,  they  could  find  no  one  on  whom 
to  fix  their  wrath  but  a  bland-looking  gentleman 
gazing  with  vacuous  eyes  into  the  distance.  It 
was  clearly  impossible  to  associate  the  remark 
they  had  overheard  with  so  benign  and  pre- 
occupied a  countenance,  and  so,  after  a  long  and 
wrathful  scrutiny,  the  insulted  one  would  once 
more  face  to  his  front,  convinced  that  his  ears 
must  have  deceived  him. 

It  is  difficult  for  the  present  generation  to 
realise  how  deadly  to  feminine  organisms  the  fumes 
of  tobacco  were  supposed  to  be  in  the  Sixties. 
Queen  Victoria  herself  headed  the  crusade  against 
tobacco,  and  visitors  to  Windsor  had  to  smoke 

128 


VICEREGAL    DAYS 

with  their  heads  up  the  chimney.  No  one  ever 
smoked  after  dinner,  or  indeed  in  any  room  except 
that  specially  set  apart  for  the  purpose,  which  was 
usually  in  the  most  remote  and  inaccessible 
position  procurable.  At  Drumlanrig,  in  the  old 
days,  smokers,  having  crept  down  from  their 
rooms,  clad  in  the  peculiar  livery  exacted  by  the 
custom  of  the  day,  passed  through  a  swing- 
door  leading  out  of  the  entrance  hall.  Here  a 
scarlet  band  on  a  white  wall  guided  them  down 
a  circular  stone  staircase.  At  the  foot  of  this 
staircase  the  scarlet  band  pursued  its  way  through 
an  interminable  intricacy  of  passages,  tunnels 
and  swing-doors  till,  finally,  a  room  at  the  extreme 
end  of  a  long  projecting  wing  was  reached.  Here, 
and  here  only,  the  votaries  of  tobacco  were  allowed 
to  emit  their  deadly  fumes.  Nowadays,  when  we 
see  the  nostrils  of  fair  ladies  shooting  forth  clouds 
of  smoke  in  the  holy  of  holies  of  their  grand- 
mothers, and  not  only  surviving,  but  looking 
remarkably  fresh  and  pretty,  one  cannot  help 
wondering  whether  the  horror  of  tobacco  affected 
by  the  ladies  of  the  Sixties  was  wholly  genuine. 


129 


CHAPTER  IX 

DRUMLANRIG 

Drumlanrig  Castle  in  the  days  of  Walter 
Francis,  fifth  Duke  of  Buccleuch  and  seventh 
Duke  of  Queensberry,  was  the  most  princely 
establishment  in  the  kingdom.  For  three  months 
of  the  year  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  with  traditional 
Scottish  hospitality,  kept  open  house.  This  has 
become  an  expression  which  is  often  loosely  used 
to  describe  a  totally  inadequate  set  of  circum- 
stances ;  but  in  the  case  of  the  Buccleuchs  it  was 
literally  true.  Anyone  and  everyone,  who  was 
so  inclined,  used  to  invite  themselves  to  Drum- 
lanrig,  with  all  their  retinue,  and  very  often  with 
all  their  children,  and  there  remain  so  long  as 
it  suited  their  convenience.  No  one  was  ever 
refused  or  turned  away,  so  long  as  there  was  an 
empty  bedroom  in  the  house.  This  princely 
custom  was,  as  may  well  be  imagined,  not  only 
appreciated  but  taken  full  advantage  of,  and,  in 
many  cases,  it  was  taken  advantage  of  by  those 
who,  had  they  waited  for  an  invitation,  would 
have  seen  but  little  of  the  inside  of  Drumlanrig 
Castle.  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  a  custom 
such  as  this,  splendid  though  it  may  be  in  the 
abstract,  is  sure  to  be  presumed  upon  by  the 

130 


DRUMLANRIG 

mighty  army  of  opportunists,  and  cannot  fail  to 
saddle  those  responsible  for  it  with  many  guests 
who  are  not  of  their  own  choosing  and  who  never 
would  be  of  their  own  choosing.  The  excuse  of 
"  no  room  "  was  hardly  admissible  in  view  of  the 
size  of  the  house,  and,  besides,  any  such  line  of 
action  would  have  been  contrary  to  the  established 
family  principle,  which  laid  down  that  Drumlanrig 
had  to  receive  all  comers  with  open  arms,  whether 
welcome  or  otherwise. 

If  the  domestic  arrangements  of  Walter  Francis 
were  regal,  as  one  cannot  but  admit  they  were, 
his  personal  status  throughout  the  Border  country 
was  little  less  so.  Partly  from  tradition  connected 
with  the  exploits  of  the  "  bauld  Buccleuch," 
partly  on  account  of  his  own  impressive  person- 
ality, but  mainly,  no  doubt,  because  of  his 
immense  possessions,  he  ranked  in  his  own  country 
as  the  equal  of  anyone  in  the  kingdom,  whether 
crowned  or  uncrowned.  "  No,  not  if  you  were 
the  Duke  of  Buccleuch  himself,"  became  a 
common  expression  in  cases  where  an  impossibility 
was  asked. 

The  residential  possessions  of  Walter  Francis 
were  not  only  greater  by  far  than  those  of  any 
other  subject,  but  were  probably  greater  than 
those  of  any  crowned  head  in  Europe.  In  1878, 
on  the  occasion  of  his  jubilee  as  a  landlord,  he 
was  presented  with  an  illuminated  address  signed 
by  no  fewer  than  seven  hundred  of  his  tenants  in 
Scotland.  To  those  who  are  acquainted  with  the 
mighty  acreage  of  the  Border  farms  this  figure 

131 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

will  convey  some  idea  of  the  vast  extent  of  his 
landed  estates.  His  principal  residences  in  Scot- 
land were  Drumlanrig  Castle,  Dalkeith  Palace, 
Bowhill  Park,  Eildon  Hall,  Langholm  Lodge  and 
Branxholm  Hall,  the  latter  being  the  original 
dwelling-place  of  the  Scotts  of  Buccleuch.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  tells  us  that  on  the  maintenance 
and  improvement  of  these  places,  Charles,  fourth 
Duke  and  father  of  Walter  Francis,  at  one  time 
employed  no  fewer  than  947  labourers.  In 
England  the  Duke's  principal  country  houses 
were  Boughton  House,  Beaulieu  Abbey,  Dun- 
church  House,  Cawston  Hall,  Ditton  House  and 
a  large  and  beautiful  villa  on  the  Thames  at 
Richmond.  This  embarrassing  accumulation  of 
country  residences  had  drifted  into  the  possession 
of  one  man  through  the  gradual  fusion  by  mar- 
riage of  the  three  ducal  houses  of  Montagu, 
Queensberry  and  Buccleuch.  Dunchurch  and 
Cawston  were  let  and  Branxholm  was  in  the 
occupation  of  one  of  the  land  agents,  but  all  the 
others,  as  well  as  Montagu  House,  Whitehall, 
were  so  kept  up  as  to  be  ready  for  occupation  by 
their  owner  at  any  moment.  Each  of  the  Scotch 
houses  was  favoured  with  a  certain  period  of 
residence  during  the  year.  At  the  end  of  the 
London  season,  Langholm  was  occupied  for  two 
months  or  so  for  the  grouse  shooting.  The  next 
three  months  were  spent  at  Drumlanrig,  and,  at 
Christmas,  the  family  gathered  together  at  Dal- 
keith, where  they  remained  till  March,  when 
Bowhill    became   the   family   residence    till   the 

132 


DRUMLANRIG 

London  season  began  again.  Eildon  was  occupied 
sporadically  during  the  hunting  season,  being 
situated  near  the  kennels  of  the  Duke's  hounds. 
These  various  places  were  linked  together  by 
estates  so  vast  that  it  was  possible  for  the  Duke 
to  drive  from  one  to  the  other  without  being  for 
any  great  length  of  time  off  his  own  property. 

Of  the  English  places,  Boughton  House,  Ketter- 
ing, was,  and  is  still,  the  most  striking.  This 
house  is  a  miniature  Versailles,  built  for  the  Duke 
of  Montagu  by  the  same  architect,  and  sur- 
rounded— as  in  Versailles — by  star-shaped  avenues. 
It  is  full  of  beautiful  things.  The  real  emporium 
of  beautiful  things,  however,  is  Dalkeith,  which 
contains  almost  a  second  Wallace  Collection  of 
art  treasures.  Drumlanrig  contains  little  that 
is  of  high  artistic  value,  and  yet  in  the  grandeur 
of  its  position  and  surroundings  it  dwarfs,  in 
my  opinion,  any  other  private  residence  in  the 
kingdom.  The  late  Lord  Bath  held  the  same 
view,  and,  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  to 
Drumlanrig,  told  me  that,  in  his  opinion,  it 
beat  anything  in  the  kingdom  for  grandeur, 
not  excepting  his  own  beautiful  place  at  Longleat. 

Drumlanrig  Castle  has  been  described,  and 
aptly  described,  as  standing  on  a  tea-cup  inverted 
in  a  washing-basin.  The  Castle  itself  crowns 
an  abrupt  eminence  which  is,  in  turn,  hedged 
round  by  a  ring  of  magnificently  shaped  moun- 
tains some  five  or  six  miles  distant.  The  old 
Duke  always  spoke  of  this  ring  of  mountains 
as  the  "  park  wall  "  and,  in  honest  truth,  the 

133 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

description  is  not  altogether  inapt.  The  woods, 
radiating  out  in  all  directions  from  the  Castle, 
make  it  difficult  to  determine  when  the  park 
proper  may  be  said  to  end  and  the  open  country 
begin.  In  the  day  of  Walter  Francis  there 
were  said  to  be  a  hundred  miles  of  grass  rides 
through  these  woods,  all  of  which  were  kept 
mown  like  lawns. 

At  the  time  of  my  first  visit  to  Drumlanrig, 
all  this  splendour  left  me  cold.  The  young 
take  such  things  for  granted.  It  is  only  as 
years  advance  that  the  problem  of  ways  and 
means  presents  any  live  interest  and,  possibly, 
excites  a  wondering  admiration.  To  the  youth — 
and  especially  the  gilded  youth— who  has  so 
far  had  to  pay  for  nothing  and  organise  nothing, 
the  crowd  of  obsequious  figures  that  minister 
to  his  daily  wants  and  pleasures  are  but  an 
essential  part  of  the  scheme  of  nature  and  excite 
no  more  speculation  in  his  mind  than  the  rising 
of  the  sun  or  the  budding  of  the  trees  in  spring. 
The  only  item  on  the  daily  programme  at  Drum- 
lanrig that  moved  me  to  any  wonder  was  the 
fruit  supply —possibly  because,  at  that  early  age,  I 
was  extremely  partial  to  fruit.  Fruit  was  to 
me  neither  forbidden  nor  unfamiliar.  I  had, 
in  fact,  been  used,  all  my  life,  to  big  country 
houses  with  their  kitchen-gardens  attached.  At 
the  Viceregal  Lodge  I  had  been  used  to  some- 
thing more,  for  the  garden  there  is  the  second 
largest  in  the  kingdom,  but  the  piles  and  pyramids 
of  fruit  which  crowded  the  dining-room  table  at 

134 


DRUMLANRIG 

Drumlanrig  at  every  meal  were  something  alto- 
gether outside  my  experience.  At  the  age  of 
twenty  I  was  particularly  fond  of  fruit  and,  though 
decency  demanded  a  certain  restraint  in  attacking 
the  aforesaid  pyramids,  I  found  consolation  at  first 
for  having  to  tear  myself  away  from  some  par- 
ticularly attractive  dish  of  peaches  or  nectarines, 
or  some  very  special  brand  of  grape,  in  the 
thought  that  I  could  resume  the  attack  at  the 
next  meal.  To  my  surprise,  however,  I  soon 
learned  that  this  was  not  practicable,  for  there 
was  no  reappearance  of  the  special  brand  of 
grapes,  peaches  or  nectarines  aforesaid.  In  their 
place  on  the  table  were  new  and  strange  piles  of 
fruit  with  which  I  had  no  previous  acquaintance. 
I  made  timid  inquiry  and  was  told  that  the 
custom  of  the  house  (no  doubt  emanating  from 
the  basement)  was  that  no  fruit  which  had  once 
graced  the  dining-room  table  should  on  any 
account  make  a  second  appearance  there.  Under 
this  strange  rule,  huge  bunches  of  grapes,  with 
their  symmetry  hardly  affected  by  the  feeble 
assaults  of  those  sitting  near  them,  dived  down 
into  the  lower  regions  after  their  debut,  to  be 
seen  no  more.  It  is  clear  that  a  system  of 
prodigal  consumption  such  as  this  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  make  stupendous  demands  on  the 
Buccleuch  fruit  supplies.  These,  however,  never 
failed  to  prove  fully  equal  to  the  demand. 
Langholm,  Eildon  and  Bowhill  could  each  boast 
large  and  prolific  kitchen-gardens,  but  the  main 
sources  of  supply  were,  of  course,  Drumlanrig  and 

135 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Dalkeith.  The  latter  alone  required  a  permanent 
staff  of  forty-two  gardeners.  The  garden  at 
Drumlanrig  was  even  larger,  though  not  favoured 
by  so  sunny  a  climate.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
Walter  Francis  knew  of  the  unwritten  law  of  the 
steward's  room  which  made  such  extravagant 
demands  upon  his  fruit  supplies.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  the  knowledge  would  have  interested 
him  in  any  way.  His  disposition  was  towards  a 
happy  tolerance  of  weaknesses  and  a  broad  dis- 
tribution of  God's  gifts.  All  home  produce  was 
either  consumed  in  the  course  of  ordinary  hos- 
pitality or  given  away  to  charitable  institutions. 
In  the  case  of  game  this  custom  entailed  ceaseless 
and  munificent  gifts  controlled  by  a  distributing 
agency  that  had  no  spare  time  on  its  hands,  as 
may  be  judged  from  the  following  figures.  In 
1888  the  Buccleuch  estates  in  Scotland  produced 
7726  grouse,  1121  black  game,  2342  partridges, 
2961  pheasants  and  3639  hares,  all  of  which  were 
either  consumed  on  the  premises,  or  else  were 
given  away  to  farmers,  neighbours  and  hospitals, 
or  sent  away  to  distant  friends.  Walter  Francis 
was  by  that  time  dead,  but  the  custom  of  the 
family  was  still  rigidly  maintained  by  William 
Henry,  the  sixth  Duke,  and  my  sister.  Later 
on,  when,  under  careful  management,  the  grouse 
and  pheasant  shooting  had  been  very  greatly 
improved,  the  numbers  killed  in  a  day  became 
so  large  that  there  was  no  alternative  but  to 
sell  the  game  or  let  it  go  bad.  But,  even  then, 
the  family    rule  was  broken   with  great  reluct- 

136 


Photo.  W.  &  D.  Downey. 

Walter  Francis,  5th  Duke  of  Buccleuch. 


DRUMLANRIG 

ance,  and  not  without,  I  think,  a  certain  sense 
of  dehnquency. 

At  present,  however,  we  are  dealing  with  the 
days  of  Walter  Francis.  He  himself  was  a  curious 
mixture  of  the  grand  seigneur  and  of  the  simple 
country  squire.  He  was  equally  at  home  with 
the  peasant  as  with  the  prince  and  had  only  one 
form  of  address  for  both.  On  grand  occasions, 
when  dressed  up  for  the  part,  he  was  the  beau- 
ideal  of  the  polished  aristocrat.  He  had  a  spare 
but  very  upright  figure,  a  small  square  face  with 
little  bushy  side-whiskers  and  an  invariably 
humorous  and  kindly  expression.  In  ordinary 
domestic  life,  however,  his  habits  and  dress  were  of 
the  simplest.  He  always  wore  a  Glengarry  bonnet 
when  in  Scotland,  and,  in  winter,  affected  a 
shepherd's  plaid  flung  across  his  shoulders  in 
place  of  an  overcoat.  On  several  occasions  he 
was,  to  his  own  unbounded  delight,  mistaken  by 
his  own  household  servants  for  a  shepherd,  and 
accosted  as  such.  On  one  occasion  his  own  valet 
made  this  mistake  when  passing  him  in  the  dusk, 
and,  wishing  to  be  affable,  remarked  :  "  Fine 
evening,  Jock."  "  Oh,  aye,  it's  a'  that,"  replied 
the  Duke. 

He  took  a  real  delight  in  the  society  of  his  own 
tenant-farmers,  and  would  sit  for  any  length  of 
time  chatting  with  them  on  current  topics  :  nor 
indeed  was  this  taste  of  his  greatly  to  be  wondered 
at,  for  the  tenant-farmer  of  the  Border  counties 
is  a  companion  in  whose  society  any  man  may 
take  delight.     His  fund  of  general  knowledge,  his 

137 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

keen  appreciative  humour  and  his  stock  of  local 
anecdotes  are  such  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  in 
his  company  and  not  be  entertained,  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
wonderful  teas  which  those  Dumfriesshire  and 
Roxburghshire  farmers  used  to  provide  for  us 
after  shooting.  They  even  now  dwell  pleasantly 
in  my  memory. 

I  was  very  young  when  I  first  went  to  Drum- 
lanrig,  having,  in  fact,  only  just  left  Harrow.  I 
was  staying  at  Langholm  with  the  Dalkeiths  and, 
having  heard  much  of  the  wonders  of  Drumlanrig, 
experienced  a  great  wish  to  see  it.  I  consulted 
my  host  and  hostess  as  to  how  it  could  be  done. 
"  Why,  write  to  the  Duchess,  of  course,  and  say 
you  are  coming,"  was  the  reply;  "that  is  what 
everyone  does." 

I  followed  this  advice  and  at  once  received  a 
most  cordial  reply,  begging  that  I  would  come 
and  stay  as  long  as  I  felt  inclined.  I  arrived  and 
found  the  house  (as  it  always  was  during  the  last 
three  months  of  the  year)  packed  with  visitors, 
of  whom  all  the  males  were  intent  on  shooting, 
as  indeed  was  I,  armed  with  a  new  pair  of  guns. 
One  of  the  most  outstanding  drawbacks  of 
universal  hospitality,  in  a  country  house  where 
there  is  shooting,  is  that  the  host  cannot  select 
his  own  guns,  or,  if  he  does  select  them,  finds 
them  crowded  out  by  so  many  self-invited  guests 
that  everyone's  pleasure  is  spoilt.  At  Drumlanrig 
it  was  by  no  means  uncommon  for  fifteen  or 
sixteen  guns  to  assemble  after  breakfast  at  the 

138 


DRUMLANRIG 

top  of  the  red  sandstone  steps  that  lead  down 
from  the  front  door.  One  and  all  expected  to 
be  conveyed  to  the  scene  of  action,  with  their 
loaders  and  dogs,  and,  when  there,  to  be  provided 
with  plenty  to  shoot  at.  All  were  gratified  of 
their  wish,  for  how  could  any  be  refused  without 
a  violation  of  the  fundamental  principle  of  the 
family — the  principle  of  universal  hospitality? 
The  extent  of  the  shooting-ground  was  practically 
unlimited,  but,  of  necessity,  some  of  it  lay  at 
very  great  distances  and  the  question  of  transport 
was  no  light  one.  It  was  achieved  in  those  days 
by  means  of  big  omnibuses  with  four  horses  and 
postilions.  At  least  four  days  a  week  throughout 
October,  November  and  December  one  or  two  of 
such  omnibuses  would  set  out  from  the  main 
entrance  for  some  distant  part  of  the  estate, 
packed  to  their  utmost  limits  with  shooting 
enthusiasts  of  all  ages  from  eighteen  to  eighty. 
I  have  myself,  on  more  occasions  than  one,  been 
one  of  a  party  of  fifteen ;  but  the  game-book  has 
it  on  record  that,  on  one  occasion,  no  fewer  than 
twenty-three  guns  took  part  in  a  grouse  drive  at 
Wanlock  Head,  eleven  miles  from  Drumlanrig ! 
These  over-weighted  shooting-parties  were,  of 
course,  a  nuisance  to  everyone  concerned,  but 
the  only  people  who  never  complained  were  those 
who  had  to  provide  the  entertainment.  Others 
did  grumble  freely,  forgetting  that  the  fault  lay 
entirely  with  themselves,  for  having  pushed  them- 
selves in  where  they  were  not  invited.  It  is  only 
fair  to  add  that  the  grumblers  were  almost  always 

139 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

old  fogies  who  from  long  indulgence  thought  that 
no  one  had  any  right  to  be  there  but  themselves, 
and  who  overlooked  the  fact  that  they  themselves 
were  open  to  all  the  charges  which  they  levelled 
so  freely  against  the  other  old  fogies. 

Over-weighted  as  these  shooting-parties  un- 
doubtedly were,  and  great  as  were  the  grumblings, 
jealousies  and  mutual  hatred  of  the  many  old 
fogies  engaged  in  them,  the  general  atmosphere 
was  one  of  thorough  enjoyment,  and  luncheon 
generally  succeeded  in  restoring  good  humour  all 
round.  Not  that  these  shooting-luncheons  were 
by  any  means  in  the  nature  of  gastronomic  orgies. 
On  the  contrary,  they  were  almost  Spartan  in 
their  simplicity.  Abundance  of  all  kind  there 
certainly  was,  but  all  of  a  simple  character.  It 
was,  is  still,  and  probably  always  will  be  a  rule 
in  the  Scott  family  that  shooting-luncheons  should 
be  cold  and  taken  in  the  open  air.  No  matter 
how  cold  or  wet  it  might  be,  the  shelter  of  a  wall 
and  the  protection  of  a  game-bag  were  all  that 
was  offered  and  all  that  was  asked  for.  The 
elaborate  feasts  in  tents  which  King  Edward 
introduced  in  the  south,  and  which  cut  so  big  a 
slice  out  of  the  time  available  for  shooting,  found 
no  favour  on  the  Buccleuch  estates.  The  teas, 
however,  in  the  farm-houses  at  the  end  of  the 
day  were  full  compensation  for  any  discomforts 
of  wind  or  rain.  No  sooner  had  we  discarded 
our  waterproofs  and  wrung  the  rain  from  our 
caps  than  our  eyes  were  gladdened  by  the  sight  of 
piles  of  scones,  baffs  and  girdle-cakes,  flanked  by 

140 


DRUMLANRIG 

fresh-made  butter,  heather-honey  and  a  dehcious 
confection  known  as  nub-berry  jelly,  made  from 
pale  red  mulberry-shaped  berries  sometimes  called 
"  cloud-berries,"  owing  to  their  eccentric  reluct- 
ance to  grow  at  less  than  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea.  No  matter  to  what  distant  corner  of 
the  estate  the  day's  sport  might  have  led  us, 
there  was  always  the  same  sumptuous  tea  waiting 
to  refresh  us  after  our  labours;  and  while  the 
guid-wife  and  her  daughter  plied  us  with  tea  and 
cakes,  the  farmer  would  surreptitiously  urge  the 
claims  of  the  big  decanter  standing  on  the  side- 
board; nor  would  he  by  any  means  always  urge 
in  vain.  Why  is  it  that  the  whisky  of  the  Scottish 
farmer  is  so  infinitely  better  than  the  whisky  of 
the  Duke?  Or  is  it  only  that  it  tastes  better 
because  one  is  wet  and  cold  and  tired  ?  The 
answer  must  be  left  for  others.  All  that  I  can 
vouch  for  is  that  no  whisky  has  ever  tasted  to 
me  as  the  whisky  of  those  hospitable  Border 
farmers  tasted. 

The  rule  with  the  Scotts  as  to  alfresco  luncheons 
out  shooting  was  so  inviolable  that  even  when 
the  present  King  and  Queen  visited  Drumlanrig 
in  October  1899  there  was  no  departure  from  the 
recognised  custom.  Day  after  day,  wet  or  fine, 
the  King  (then  Duke  of  York)  would  drive  ten  or 
twelve  miles  for  the  sake  of  a  rough  day's  black- 
cock driving  (which  was  the  only  form  of  sport 
that  the  time  of  year  permitted),  and,  wet  or 
fine,  there  was  no  one  of  the  party  who  shot  so 
well  or  who  enjoyed  himself  more,  despite  small 

141 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

bags,  wet  weather  and  cold  luncheon  under  the 
shelter  of  a  wall. 

The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  York  were  not,  as 
may  be  imagined,  among  the  self-invited  guests, 
nor  was  Arthur  James  Balfour,  who  visited  Drum- 
lanrig  some  few  years  later.  Arthur  Balfour,  who 
was  Prime  Minister  at  the  time,  was  asked  to 
Drumlanrig  for  the  purpose  of  a  big  meeting 
which  he  was  advertised  to  address  at  Dumfries. 
During  the  previous  week  Mr.  Asquith  had 
delivered  an  important  speech  at  Dumfries,  in 
the  course  of  which  he  had,  as  usual,  failed  to 
find  merit  in  any  single  act  or  action  of  the 
Government  during  its  entire  tenure  of  office. 
While  driving  to  the  Unionist  meeting  which  was 
designed  to  act  as  a  counterblast  to  the  other, 
one  of  the  party  said  to  the  Prime  Minister  : 

"  Well,  Arthur,  I  suppose  you  are  going  to 
knock  holes  in  all  the  terrible  indictments  that 
Asquith  launched  against  you  in  his  speech  last 
week?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  Prime  Minister  calmly,  "  I 
hope  I  may,  but  the  fact  is  I  didn't  read  his 
speech.  Did  he  say  very  dreadful  things  about 
me?" 

In  reply  the  other  enumerated  a  number  of  the 
scathing  charges  which  Mr.  Asquith  had  levelled 
against  the  Government  and  its  leader. 

"  Ah,  thank  you,"  said  Arthur  Balfour,  "  I 
think  I  shall  be  able  to  dispose  of  those  points 
all  right."  And  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt 
that  he  did,   to  the  unqualified  delight  of  the 

142 


DRUMLANRIG 

audience  of  5000  who  heard  him.  But  I  could 
not  help  wondering  what  would  have  been  the 
subject  of  his  speech  had  our  friend  not  made  his 
chance  remark  in  the  motor-car.  One  thing  only 
is  quite  certain,  and  that  is  that  the  speech  would 
have  been  an  admirable  and  telling  one  whatever 
the  circumstances  were,  and  however  suddenly 
the  points  to  be  dealt  with  had  been  thrust 
upon  the  speaker. 

Next  day  John  Bell,  the  then  head-keeper  at 
Drumlanrig,  was  asked  if  he  had  heard  Mr. 
Balfour's  speech. 

"  No,"  was  his  unexpected  reply;  "  the  fact  is 
I  have  made  it  a  practice  for  some  years  past 
never  to  go  out  after  sundown," — a  refreshingly 
candid  admission  from  a  gamekeeper  ! 

John  Bell  was  a  fine  example  of  the  old  Scottish 
gamekeeper — highly  educated,  keenly  intelligent 
and  meticulously  honest.  In  one  particular  he 
stands  out  vividly  in  my  recollection,  viz.  as  the 
only  man  I  have  ever  come  across  who  resolutely 
refused  a  proffered  tip.  I  had  been  shooting  at 
Drumlanrig  and,  on  my  departure,  presented  Bell 
with  the  usual  tip.  Unexpected  circumstances 
brought  me  back  to  Drumlanrig  a  fortnight  later, 
and  I  had  two  more  days'  shooting.  Before 
leaving  I  extended  a  sovereign,  at  sight  of  which 
Bell  turned  his  back  and  thrust  both  his  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets. 

"  No,"  he  said,  calmly  but  resolutely,  "  you 
gave  me  plenty  before,  and  I'll  take  no  more." 

I  persisted,  but   he  was  obdurate  and  finally 

143 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

strode  hastily  away  in  the  direction  of  his  house, 
leaving  me  standing  there  with  my  hand  foolishly 
extended.  I  had,  in  the  end,  to  send  the  money 
by  post,  and,  in  reply,  received  a  very  appreciative 
but  reproachful  letter  of  thanks. 

The  extraordinary  idea,  originated  and  main- 
tained by  Cockney  comic  papers  and  Cockney 
music-halls,  that  the  Scot  is  a  mean  fellow  to 
whom  the  spending  of  a  sixpence  is  pain,  is  about 
as  wide  of  the  truth  as  it  is  possible  for  a  popular 
fallacy  to  reach.  In  my  experience,  which  is 
considerable,  the  Scot,  in  the  matter  of  generosity, 
is  distinctly  ahead  of  either  the  English,  the  Welsh 
or  the  Irish ;  but  he  is  a  hater  of  waste  and  loves 
driving  a  hard  bargain.  In  no  section  of  the 
British  Isles,  outside  of  Scotland,  have  I  come 
across  men  of  the  humbler  classes  who  will  do 
one  laborious  service  without  any  expectation  of 
reward.  I  have  met  that  spirit  in  Western 
America  and  Western  Canada,  but  nowhere  in 
the  British  Isles  except  in  Scotland.  The  out- 
standing generosity  of  the  Scot  is  always  in  full 
evidence  on  the  occasion  of  any  national  sub- 
scription for  charitable  or  patriotic  purposes. 
On  such  occasions  Glasgow's  contribution  is 
invariably  ahead  of  that  of  any  other  town  in 
the  kingdom. 

I  was  at  one  time,  for  a  year  or  two,  a  regular 
attendant  at  the  Scotch  Presbyterian  Church  in 
Pont  Street.  When  it  so  happened  that  Dr. 
McLeod  was  called  upon  to  make  a  charitable 
appeal  from  the  pulpit,  the  response  was  such  as 

144 


DRUMLANRIG 

absolutely  to  stagger  one  who  was  only  accus- 
tomed to  the  miserly  silver  and  copper  offerings 
with  which  the  pious  besprinkle  the  plates  in 
English  churches.  It  was  rare  at  St.  Columba's 
to  see  anything  less  than  gold,  while  five-pound 
notes  and  cheques  rose  in  such  disorderly  pro- 
fusion from  the  plate  that,  in  the  end,  the  sub- 
stratum of  gold  was  completely  hidden.  Think 
of  that,  you  comic  paper  artists,  who  think  twice 
before  putting  sixpence  in  the  plate  ! 

I  think  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  is  the 
innate  honesty  of  the  Scot  which  has  earned  for 
him  the  character  of  meanness  with  a  certain 
class  of  critic.  Conscientious  honesty  is  the  most 
unpopular  attribute  that  any  man  can  have, 
except  in  the  estimation  of  the  immediate  circle 
that  employs  him.  An  unhappily  large  pro- 
portion of  mankind,  outside  the  upper  ten 
thousand,  is  intrinsically  dishonest,  and,  when 
these  come  in  contact  with  a  meticulous  honesty 
which  is  outside  their  understanding,  they  show 
their  resentment  by  plastering  it  with  nasty 
names. 

A  striking  example  of  this  very  common  failing 
came  under  my  observation  on  one  occasion  when 
I  was  travelling  from  Jamaica  to  Colon.  At  the 
same  table  as  myself  sat  two  mining  engineers 
who  were  destined  for  South  America  on  two 
totally  distinct  errands.  One  was  a  Scot,  whom 
I  will  call  Macpherson,  and  the  other  was  an 
Irishman,  whom  I  will  call  O'Grady.  Christmas 
Day  fell  on  us  during  this  sea  voyage  in  the 

L  145 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

tropics,  and  at  dinner  O' Grady  called  loudly  for 
a  bottle  of  champagne  with  which  to  celebrate 
the  occasion. 

"  Now  then,  Mac,  you  have  one  too,"  he  urged. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Macpherson,  "  I  think  I'll  stick 
to  my  usual  whisky-and-soda." 

Afterwards,  on  deck,  O'Grady  commented  sar- 
castically on  the  modesty  of  Macpherson's  pota- 
tions. "  Fancy  that  fellow  Mac  not  drinking 
champagne  !  "  he  said  to  me;  "  a  regular  mean 
Scotchman,  eh  ?  " 

*'  Well,"  I  replied  doubtfully,  "  who  would  have 
paid  for  the  champagne?  " 

"  Why,  the  Company  that's  sending  him  out, 
of  course,"  he  said. 

"  And  who  will  pay  for  yours?  "  I  asked. 

*'  Why,  my  Company,  of  course,"  he  replied, 
laughing  hilariously ;  "  and  what's  more,  it's  not 
the  first  nor  the  last  bottle  they'll  pay  for  by  a 
long  way." 


146 


CHAPTER  X 

LANGHOLM 

When  Walter  Francis,  the  fifth  Duke  died, 
there  was  no  appreciable  change  in  the  Buccleuch 
routine.  The  Richmond  villa  was  sold,  Beaulieu 
passed  to  Lord  Henry  Scott,  the  second  son, 
afterwards  Lord  Montagu,  and  Ditton  House 
went  to  the  Dowager  Duchess  for  her  life,  and 
afterwards  that  too  went  to  Lord  Montagu, 
together  with  the  valuable  Clitheroe  property 
in  Lancashire.  The  alienation  of  these  places 
made  no  change  in  the  habits  of  the  family. 
William  Henry,  the  sixth  Duke,  and  my  sister 
continued  to  tread  religiously  in  the  footsteps 
of  their  predecessors.  Of  all  the  articles  of  faith 
which  govern  the  lives  of  the  Scotts  of  Buccleuch, 
the  first  and  foremost  is  a  belief  in  strict  adherence 
to  family  traditions.  Nothing  must  be  done 
which  could  in  any  way  offend  the  shades  of  past 
generations.  So  nothing  was  changed.  Drum- 
lanrig  continued  to  entertain  its  hosts  of  self- 
invited  guests  with  an  unabated  magnificence. 
Montagu  House,  in  Whitehall,  maintained  the 
same  spirit  of  open  hospitality.  Every  day, 
throughout  the  London  season,  luncheon  was 
provided  for  all  comers.  As  at  Drumlanrig, 
everyone  who  chose  to  walk  in  was  welcome,  and 

147 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

very  freely  did  the  friends  of  the  family  avail 
themselves  of  this  most  sumptuous  and  convenient 
custom.  The  only  real  change  which  followed 
on  the  death  of  Walter  Francis  was  an  astonishing 
development  in  the  sporting  productiveness  of  the 
Buccleuch  properties.  Walter  Dalkeith,  the  new 
Duke's  eldest  son,  was  full  of  a  boundless  energy 
and  a  keen  enthusiasm  for  all  outdoor  games 
and  sports.  The  shooting  at  Langholm  had  for 
many  years  lain  dormant  under  the  tutelage  of 
an  amiable  but  lethargic  Highlander,  who  pre- 
ferred ease  and  anecdote  to  strenuous  work  and 
big  bags.  Opportunities  for  ease  and  anecdote 
were  secured  for  the  old  retainer  elsewhere  and, 
in  collaboration  with  a  new,  young  and  athletic 
head-keeper,  Walter  Dalkeith  (or  Eskdale,  as  he 
was  then)  determined  to  probe  the  possibilities 
of  the  Langholm  moors  to  their  utmost. 

In  the  summer  of  1881,  before  the  old  Duke's 
death,  my  sister  wrote  to  me — at  that  time  a 
subaltern  quartered  at  Hounslow — asking  me  to 
come  up  to  Langholm  for  a  month  and  shoot 
grouse.  The  invitation  was  unexpected,  but,  of 
course,  quite  irresistible.  I  knew  nothing  about 
shooting  grouse ;  I  had  never  even  seen  a  grouse ; 
to  me  it  was  a  semi-mythical  bird,  written  about 
in  books  and  pictured  in  Punch  cartoons,  but  not 
really  existent.  However,  now  it  appeared  that  it 
was  actually  to  be  presented  to  me  in  the  flesh, 
and  so  in  due  course,  in  a  spirit  of  delirious 
exaltation,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  Midland  express 
which  was  to  bear  me  to  a  land  of  unknown 

148 


LANGHOLM 

wonders  and  delights.  Once  Carlisle  was  passed, 
and  I  had  changed  into  the  slow  local  train  which 
was  to  carry  me  the  rest  of  the  way,  my  eyes 
feasted  on  every  yard  of  this  new  country  with  a 
consuming  interest.  When  the  train  left  the  huge 
flat  fields  of  Netherby  and  burrowed  in  among 
the  heather-clad  hills,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Langholm  lies  tucked  away,  I  felt — and  with 
perfect  justice — that  a  new  and  hitherto  undreamt- 
of chapter  in  my  life  was  being  opened.  But 
not  even  then  did  I  for  one  moment  anticipate 
that,  for  thirty-five  years  to  come,  I  would,  every 
August,  with  unfailing  regularity,  make  that  same 
slow  crawling  journey  from  Carlisle  into  those 
friendly,  familiar  and  beloved  hills  that  held  for 
me  joys  almost  too  great  to  be  decorously  borne, 
and  certainly  far  too  great  to  be  described.  Yet 
so  it  was.  Season  after  season,  in  response  to 
an  invitation  which  for  thirty- five  years  never 
failed  to  gladden  my  expectant  eyes,  I  made  my 
rejoicing  way  to  Langholm,  there  to  be  ever  met 
with  the  same  warm,  boisterous  welcome  and  the 
same  self-effacing  kindness  and  affection,  till 
in  the  end  the  benty  Border  hills,  with  their 
towering  round  crests  streaked  and  flecked  with 
heather,  and  fantastically  split  by  precipitous 
cleuchs,  became  for  me  the  most  familiar  land- 
marks in  the  British  Isles;  Langholm  became  a 
second  home  to  me,  and  my  nephews  became  more 
to  me  than  brothers. 

In  the  first  of  these  thirty-five  years,  when  I 
had  been  deposited,  palpitating  with  excitement, 

149 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

at  the  front  door  of  Langholm  Lodge,  I  found 
myself  facing  a  house  of  considerable  size,  but 
of  unpretentious  architecture.  A  hundred  yards 
away  the  Esk  careered  musically  towards  the  sea, 
while  on  either  side  a  steep-faced  mountain  rose 
abruptly  to  the  sky.  Woods  were  on  every  side, 
out  of  which  little  brown  owls  were  plaintively 
hooting  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  river. 
All  through  that  first  sleepless  night— and  for 
many  years  to  come  every  first  night  at  Langholm 
was  a  sleepless  one — these  little  owls  would  make 
pleasant  music  to  me  as  I  lay  awake  waiting 
eagerly  for  the  dawn.  All  too  slowly  for  my 
eagerness  that  dawn  at  length  broke;  at  7.30 
we  had  breakfast  and  at  nine  we  were  on  the 
moors,  walking  up  the  hitherto  mythical  grouse 
in  military  line,  and  occasionally  even  laying  one 
low  upon  the  heather.  That  was  the  moment  of 
realisation,  and  it  fell  but  a  very  little  way  short 
of  expectation.  In  fact,  I  think  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  it  actually  exceeded  expectation. 
There  was  but  one  blot  on  our  perfect  happiness. 
We  did  not  succeed  in  winning  the  approval  oi  the 
head-keeper.  He  was  young  and  energetic,  but  we 
were  younger  and  more  energetic,  and  we  walked 
him  off  his  legs,  and  at  the  same  time  missed  a 
good  many  grouse  which  we  ought  not  to  have 
missed.  His  comments  were  not  flattering.  When, 
by  happy  chance,  a  bird  did  fall  to  our  guns,  it 
was  retrieved  by  beautiful  but  odd-looking  dogs 
which  bore  no  sort  of  resemblance  to  any  retriever 
I  had  ever  seen.     They  were  small,  with  coats  like 

150 


LANGHOLM 

otters,  pointed  muscular  tails  and  alert  intelligent 
heads,  and  they  galloped  where  retrievers  would 
have  walked.  Full  of  interest  and  curiosity, 
I  asked  what  these  strange  beasts  were,  and  was 
told  that  they  were  Labrador  retrievers  and  the 
only  ones  in  the  kingdom.  Labrador  retrievers 
are  now  familiar  objects  everywhere,  but  in  those 
days  they  were  unknown  except  at  Langholm,  and 
it  is  worthy  of  note  that  it  was  from  the  two 
original  Langholm  Labradors,  "  Hector "  and 
"  Dinah,"  that  the  entire  modern  breed  has 
sprung.  For  many  years  Langholm  and  Drum- 
lanrig  enjoyed  a  monopoly  of  these  beautiful  and 
fascinating  dogs;  but  they  then  became  so 
numerous  that  many  were  given  away  to  friends, 
and  so  the  breed  became  distributed  about  the 
kingdom.  The  Buccleuch  strain,  however,  still 
remains  superior  to  any  other,  as  the  best  dogs 
and  bitches  have  never  been  given  away. 

As  may  be  gathered  from  the  foregoing  con- 
fessions, our  bags  were  not  of  a  sensational  order. 
It  was  only  by  prodigious  efforts  of  pedestrianism 
that  we  were  able  to  amass  between  thirty  and 
forty  brace  per  day;  for  it  is  not  to  be  denied 
that,  though  we  were  good  walkers  and  free 
shooters,  we  were  very  bad  hitters.  These 
figures  are  quite  interesting  in  view  of  future 
developments,  and  as  an  illustration  of  how 
comparatively  sterile  moors  can  be  made  prolific 
by  intelligent  treatment. 

For  six  years  these  annual  August  gatherings 
continued  to  fill  us— or,  at  any  rate,  one  among 

151 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

us — with  indescribable  happiness.  Our  shooting 
gradually  improved,  but  our  bags  did  not  advance 
proportionately,  for  driving  only  supplanted  the 
old  military  line  very  gradually,  and  over  the 
dead  bodies,  so  to  speak,  of  the  keepers,  who 
opposed  the  change  with  every  antiquated  argu- 
ment known  to  ignorance.  Walter  Dalkeith, 
however,  gradually  asserted  his  will,  and  experi- 
mental lines  of  butts  began  to  stud  the  hill-sides 
and  rigs.  He  himself,  with  the  aid  of  a  pair  of 
new  guns  which  suited  him,  had  developed  into 
a  real  "  class  "  shot. 

Then,  in  1886,  came  the  blow  which,  for  the 
time  being,  shattered  all  the  happiness  of  the 
house  of  Buccleuch.  Walter  Dalkeith  was  killed 
while  deer-stalking  at  Achnacarry.  The  accident 
was  a  curious  one.  Dalkeith  had  just  fired  at  a 
stag  which,  as  it  turned  out,  he  had  shot  through 
the  heart,  but  the  deer  had  passed  out  of  his 
sight,  and,  in  his  eagerness  to  see  the  result  of 
his  shot,  he  ran  down  a  slope  of  loose  shale,  with 
the  rifle  still  in  his  hand.  His  feet  slipped  and 
he  fell  on  his  back  and,  in  that  position,  slithered 
down  the  incline.  The  butt  of  the  rifle  caught  a 
projecting  rock,  the  rifle  was  twisted  round  so 
that  it  pointed  at  his  armpit,  and  the  jerk  of  his 
finger  on  the  trigger  exploded  the  second  barrel. 
He  died  within  three  minutes. 

Walter  Dalkeith  had  a  most  rare  and  lovable 
personality.  It  is  quite  impossible  by  the  mere 
use  of  hackneyed  words  and  phrases  to  convey 
any  idea  of  how  lovable  that  personality  was,  or 

152 


Photo.  W.  &  D.  Downey. 


William   Henry,    6Tn    Duke   of   Buccleucii,    and  thic 
Duchess   (Lady   Louisa   Hamilton). 


LANGHOLM 

of  what  it  was  exactly  that  endeared  him  so  to 
all  who  knew  him.  Unselfishness,  good-humour, 
simplicity  of  mind,  and  that  complete  absence  of 
anything  approaching  "  side,"  which  is  character- 
istic of  all  the  Scotts  of  Buccleuch,  were  perhaps 
the  most  conspicuous  features  in  his  character. 
Like  all  the  Scotts  of  the  four  generations  I  have 
known,  he  had  the  faculty  of  making  himself 
beloved  by  all  classes  of  society,  from  the  highest 
to  the  lowest,  and  that  without  any  effort  or 
straining  after  popularity.  It  is  no  exaggeration 
or  sentimental  figure  of  speech  to  say  that,  when 
he  died,  there  was  general  and  genuine  mourning 
from  the  Sol  way  to  Edinburgh. 

At  the  time  of  the  deer-stalking  tragedy  the 
present  Duke  was  in  the  navy.  He  felt  his 
brother's  death  most  acutely,  and,  for  a  long  while, 
shrank  perceptibly  from  publicly  assuming  a 
position  which  had  been  thrust  upon  him  by  a 
tragedy.  It  accordingly  devolved  upon  George 
Scott,  the  next  brother,  to  take  temporary  charge 
of  the  shooting  arrangements,  and  he  attacked  his 
subject  with  an  enthusiasm — behind  which  was 
real  genius — which  was  destined  to  effect  astonish- 
ing changes  in  the  entries  in  the  Langholm  game- 
book.  His  methods  were  drastic  and  revolu- 
tionary, and  were  based  on  a  long  and  careful 
study,  on  each  individual  moor,  of  the  birds' 
natural  flight.  All  the  old  lines  of  butts,  sacred 
by  usage  but  most  unprofitable  for  purposes  of 
intercepting  game,  were  ruthlessly  swept  away. 
New  fines  were  erected  in  strange  and  unlikely- 

153 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

looking  positions.  The  family  looked  on  in 
amused  scepticism.  The  keepers,  after  publicly 
prophesying  utter  disaster,  obeyed  their  orders 
in  a  spirit  of  depressed  resignation.  All  alike 
looked  upon  George  Scott's  innovations  as  a 
colossal  joke.  Those  who  dared,  laughed  openly ; 
those  who  did  not,  nudged  one  another  and 
grinned  knowingly.  After  the  first  experimental 
drives,  however,  they  laughed  and  grinned  no 
more.  The  birds  came.  Even  in  the  most 
precipitous  and  abysmal  regions  they  came, 
sailing  unexpectedly  out  of  the  blue  straight  over 
the  new  lines  of  butts  at  which  so  many  fingers 
of  scorn  had  been  pointed.  Game-book  entries 
soared  up  by  leaps  and  bounds.  The  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  lines  of  butts  was  supplemented  by 
other  aids  to  grouse  culture.  Heather  was 
systematically  burned,  boggy  bits  were  surface- 
drained;  a  war  of  extermination  was  waged 
against  vermin.  The  grouse  responded  to  these 
stimulants  in  a  becoming  spirit,  till  entries  began 
to  figure  in  the  game-book  which  were  far  and 
away  beyond  the  most  imaginative  flights  of 
those  who  had  shot  under  the  old  dispensation. 
The  climax  was  reached  in  1911.  In  that  year, 
eight  guns,  of  whom  one  was  a  schoolboy  with  a 
single  16-bore  gun,  shot  2523  grouse  in  seven 
drives  on  the  Roan  Fell,  a  beat  which,  in  old 
days,  had  always  been  condemned  as  "  com- 
pletely useless."  This  wonderful  bag  might  very 
easily  have  been  increased  by  300  brace,  had  any 
special  efforts  been  made  to  establish  a  record. 

154 


LANGHOLM 

No  such  efforts  were  made  or  even  suggested. 
We  climbed  up  to  our  first  line  of  butts,  1500  feet 
above  the  sea,  with  the  idea  that,  with  luck,  we 
might  get  500  brace,  and  our  cartridge  supply  was 
on  those  lines.  By  midday  the  whole  party  had  run 
out  of  cartridges,  and  a  long  wait  followed  while 
the  car  was  sent  back  eleven  miles  to  Langholm 
for  a  fresh  supply.  When  this  arrived,  we 
recommenced  operations  and  shot  till  about  five, 
when  Henry  Scott,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  party, 
said  that  he  thought  we  had  shot  enough  and  gave 
the  word  for  home.  Anything  in  the  nature  of 
publicity,  self-advertisement  or  of  what  is 
vulgarly  known  as  "  swank  "  is,  and  always  has 
been,  utterly  abhorrent  to  the  Scotts  of  Buccleuch, 
and  the  very  thought  that,  if  we  continued 
shooting,  we  should  probably  create  a  world's 
record  was  enough  to  determine  Henry  Scott  to 
sound  the  "  cease  fire."  But  it  is  beyond  question 
that,  even  allowing  for  the  long  interval  of  inaction 
in  the  middle  of  the  day,  we  could  easily  have 
created  a  world's  record  and  with  a  lot  to  spare. 
Some  idea  of  the  masses  of  birds  on  the  wing 
during  this  astonishing  shoot  may  be  gathered  from 
the  fact  that,  after  the  fourth  drive,  Francis  Scott 
and  I  commiserated  one  another  on  having  been 
clean  out  of  the  shooting.  I  was  on  the  left 
flank  and  he  was  next  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
we  each  had  over  eighty  birds  down  that  drive, 
and  yet,  by  contrast  with  the  terrific  fusillade 
from  the  middle  of  the  line,  it  really  did  seem  that 
we   were   getting   no   shooting.     Jack   Dawnay, 

155 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

in  the  centre  and  best  butt,  had  181  birds  down — 
a  feat  which  he  achieved  by  a  wonderful  display 
of  quick  and  accurate  shooting.  The  fourth 
drive,  just  referred  to — ^being  an  up- wind  drive — 
was  the  most  prolific  of  the  day,  but  the  most 
sporting  and  interesting  was  unquestionably  the 
third.  This  third  drive  on  the  Roan  Fell  is 
probably  the  best  individual  drive  in  the  kingdom. 
The  birds  are  driven  two  miles  before  they  come 
to  the  guns  (always  down  wind,  for  otherwise  the 
beat  would  not  be  shot),  and  generally  down  a 
semi-gale,  for  the  drive  is  along  the  top  of  a 
mountain  ridge.  The  butts  are  on  the  slope  of  the 
hill  and,  as  the  birds  are  always  heavily  flanked 
from  the  top  of  the  hill,  they  come  swooping  down 
on  to  the  guns  at  a  tremendous  rate  and  at 
every  conceivable  angle.  There  were  several 
"  centuries  "  got  that  day  in  the  third  drive. 
During  that  year  29,092  grouse  were  shot  at 
Langholm  and  its  outlying  shooting-box  at 
Newlands;  and  in  the  following  year  28,542 
grouse  were  shot  over  the  same  ground.  In  the 
latter  year,  1912,  the  Buccleuch  moors  in  Scotland 
yielded  over  40,000  grouse,  and  if  the  reader  will 
recall  the  fact  that  our  earlier  efforts  seldom 
realised  more  than  forty  brace  a  day,  he  will  get 
some  idea  of  the  astonishing  progress  which  had 
been  registered,  during  the  intervening  years, 
under  the  direction  of  George  Scott. 

In  November  1914  William  Henry,  sixth  Duke 
of  Buccleuch,  died  in  his  eighty-second  year, 
two  years  after  the  death  of  his  beloved  wife  and 

156 


LANGHOLM 

inseparable  companion  through  life.  When  my 
sister  was  on  her  deathbed,  I  hurried  up  to 
Dalkeith,  but  was  just  too  late  to  see  her  alive. 
The  old  Duke  took  me  to  her  room  and  told  me  in 
his  own  simple,  unaffected  way  that  life  was  now 
over  for  him  and  that  his  one  wish  was  to  follow 
quickly  and  rejoin  the  faithful  partner  of  all  his 
joys  and  sorrows.  In  these  days,  when  married 
life  is  so  often  a  short  farce  and  a  quick  tragedy, 
it  is  good  to  reflect  on  the  unwavering  affection, 
through  fifty  odd  years  of  married  life,  of  these 
two.  No  couple  were  ever  more  beloved  by  their 
children,  their  employes  and  the  immense  circle 
of  friends  to  whom  they  stood  for  all  that  was 
purest  and  kindest  in  life.  My  brother-in-law 
had  a  remarkable  and  singularly  lovable  disposi- 
tion. If  asked  for  a  special  definition,  I  should 
unhesitatingly  describe  him  as  the  greatest 
gentleman,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  term,  that 
I  have  known.  He  was  perhaps  less  of  the  grand 
seigneur  than  his  father,  and  it  is  possible  that 
in  that  very  difference  lay  his  chief  claim  to 
special  distinction.  Although  his  menage  was 
conducted  on  the  same  magnificent  scale  as  that 
of  his  predecessor,  the  absence  of  grandiosity 
was  so  marked  as  almost  to  suggest  an  effort 
at  concealment.  There  was,  however,  no  effort. 
All  arrangements,  no  matter  how  sumptuous, 
were  carried  out  in  a  quiet  matter-of-course 
spirit  which  took  everything,  quite  simply,  for 
granted.  It  would  be  misleading  to  say  that 
ostentation  was  deliberately  suppressed  by  the 

157 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Duke;  it  simply  never  came  within  the  range  of 
his  imagination.  He  was  as  simple-minded  and 
unaffected  as  a  child,  as  incapable  of  guile  as 
he  was  incapable  of  discourtesy.  He  had  an 
admirable  brain  and,  when  forced  to  the  effort, 
could  make  as  effective  a  speech — of  a  kind — as 
any  man  in  the  kingdom. 

Of  my  sister,  I  can  truly  say  that  she  was  a 
consort  worthy,  in  every  way,  of  the  man  she 
married.  She  was  the  most  unselfish  woman  I 
have  ever  met,  incapable  of  thinking  or  speaking 
ill  of  any,  ceaselessly  thinking  out  kind  actions, 
and  with  a  conscientious  sense  of  duty  which,  in 
the  end,  forced  her  to  carry  greater  burdens  than 
her  strength  was  equal  to.  Had  she,  at  the  last, 
relaxed  some  of  her  self-imposed  duties,  she  would 
without  doubt  have  prolonged  her  life.  They  were 
a  wonderful  couple. 


158 


CHAPTER  XI 

SOLDIERING 

Early  in  1878  I  joined  the  11th  Hussars, 
at  that  time  an  exceedingly  lively  regiment 
quartered  at  Colchester.  I  think  this  regiment 
was  selected  for  me  partly  because  it  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  particularly  smart  and 
efficient  regiment,  and  partly  because  it  was  only 
just  home  from  India  and  might  therefore  reason- 
ably be  expected  to  remain  some  ten  years  or 
so  in  the  United  Kingdom.  In  any  event  the 
selection  was  a  particularly  happy  one  for  me, 
for  a  better  lot  of  fellows  than  the  brother- 
officers  among  whom  I  found  myself  cannot  well 
be  imagined.  Over  almost  all  these  bright  souls 
the  "  Last  Post  "  has  now  been  sounded,  but  the 
recollection  of  their  cheer iness,  their  daring,  and 
above  all  of  their  staunchness  in  sunshine  or 
storm,  will  live  as  long  as  memory  lives.  Treu 
und  fest  is  the  motto  of  the  regiment,  and  true 
and  fast  these  gallant  spirits  were  to  the  end, 
till  one  by  one  we 

"  Wrapped  them  up  in  their  old  stable-jackets, 
And  said  a  poor  buffer  lay  low,  lay  low." 

Peace  to  their  ashes  1 

159 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Colonel  Garnet,  who  commanded  us,  was,  in  a 
sense,  an  anomaly  in  a  regiment  such  as  the  11th 
Hussars,  for  he  despised  externals,  despised  all 
parade  movements,  and  was  himself  conspicuously 
careless  in  his  dress.  Perhaps  he  had  a  right  to 
despise  all  these  things,  for,  as  a  leader  of  cavalry 
in  the  field,  he  had  certainly  no  equal  in  the  British 
army  at  that  time.  In  the  sham  fights  at  Alder- 
shot,  later  on,  it  was  always  a  foregone  conclusion 
that  any  side  of  which  Garnet  commxanded  the 
cavalry  effectually  rolled  up  the  other  side.  I 
used,  in  those  Aldershot  days,  to  gallop  regularly 
for  the  cavalry  leaders,  and  even  to  my  inex- 
perienced mind.  Garnet's  immeasurable  superi- 
ority over  all  the  others  was  at  once  apparent. 
Unlike  his  opponents,  he  was  always  absolutely 
cool  and  collected,  detected  in  an  instant  any  flaw 
in  their  dispositions  and  did  exactly  the  right 
thing  to  bring  them  to  utter  discomfiture.  I 
never  knew  him  hesitate,  countermand  an  order 
or  do  the  wrong  thing.  It  was  no  uncommon 
thing  for  many  of  the  other  cavalry  commanders 
to  send  three  gallopers,  one  after  the  other,  each 
countermanding  the  orders  of  the  preceding  one, 
with  the  result,  of  course,  that  the  regimental 
officers  were  at  their  wits'  end  to  know  what  to 
do;  and  while  they  were  trying  to  unravel  the 
various  conflicting  orders.  Garnet  would  execute 
one  of  his  lightning  movements  and  put  the  whole 
lot — and  very  often  many  of  the  infantry  as  well 
— out  of  action. 

It  was  a  national  misfortune  when  Garnet's 

160 


SOLDIERING 

early  death  robbed  the  country  of  a  soldier  who 
might  have  risen  to  any  heights. 

At  the  time  I  joined  the  11th  Hussars,  the 
material  god  of  the  regiment  was,  needless  to  say, 
the  horse,  and  of  that  noble  animal  I  at  once 
became  a  fanatical  devotee.  In  one  particular 
instance,  however,  my  devotion  was  strained 
almost  to  the  breaking-point,  for  my  association 
with  a  certain  troop-horse  of  ungentle  paces, 
known  as  F.  33,  was  so  long  and  so  irksome  that 
love  very  nearly  turned  to  hate. 

It  was  within  the  walls  of  the  riding  school 
that  F.  33  and  I  first  formed  an  acquaintance 
which  was  destined  to  prove  more  protracted  than 
was  agreeable  to  one  of  the  parties  concerned. 

I  had  already  done  a  certain  amount  of  riding, 
having,  in  fact,  had  a  hunter  of  my  own  at  Sand- 
hurst on  which  I  hunted  regularly  with  the  Staff 
College  drag.  In  spite,  however,  of  this  previous 
experience,  I  found  an  unaccountable  difficulty 
in  passing  out  of  the  riding  school.  Another 
subaltern,  who  had  joined  at  the  same  time  as 
myself  and  who  was  a  notoriously  poor  horseman, 
passed  out  within  a  month,  while  I  was  left 
bumping  round,  day  after  day,  on  F.  33,  under  a 
ceaseless  flow  of  scathing  vituperation  from  the 
riding-master.  Puzzled  and  pained  by  my  lack 
of  success,  I,  one  day,  poured  out  my  woes  to 
the  subaltern  who  had  joined  with  me. 

"  You  have  a  lot  to  learn  yet,  my  dear  fellow," 
he  remarked  complacently. 

"  But,  hang  it  all,"  I  said,  "  you  were  always 

M  161 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

shooting  off  on  to  your  back,  while  I  have  not 
bitten  the  tan  once." 

"  I  remarked  that  you  had  a  lot  to  learn,"  he 
repeated,  "  but  I  did  not  say  in  riding." 

"  In  what  then?  "  I  asked. 

Prescott  lighted  a  cigarette  and  gazed  dreamily 
up  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Old  X.'s  forage-cap  is  getting  shabby,"  he 
observed  presently. 

"  What  on  earth  has  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Everything,"  was  his  calm  reply. 

The  hint,  without  further  enlargement,  was 
taken  and  acted  upon.  The  result  surpassed 
expectation.  In  place  of  the  old  abuse,  the  most 
lavish  praise  now  pursued  me  as  I  bumped  dusty 
and  perspiring  round  the  school,  and  within  a 
week  I  was  pronounced  sufficiently  expert  to 
be  discharged. 

Life  at  Colchester  was,  on  the  whole,  unexciting, 
but,  in  the  winter  of  1878,  the  monotony  was 
pleasantly  relieved  by  the  appearance  on  the 
scene  of  an  illusive  midnight  reveller  known  as 
"  Spring-heeled  Jack."  This  mysterious  being 
was  responsible  for  a  series  of  visitations  which 
shook  the  nerves  of  the  entire  military  camp  to 
their  foundations.  Night  after  night  sentries 
would  be  bonneted,  cuffed  and  thrown  down  by 
an  invisible  assailant.  Cavalry,  infantry  and 
artillery  were  all  alike  impartially  victimised. 
In  our  own  Cavalry  barracks,  the  story  told 
next  day  by  the  nerve-shattered  wrecks  who  had 

162 


SOLDIERING 

been  on  sentry- duty  the  night  before  was  that 
Spring-heeled  Jack  came  flying — without  any 
preHminary  warning — over  the  top  of  the  stable 
buildings,  dropped  on  their  shoulders,  knocked 
them  down  and  was  gone  before  they  could 
recover  their  feet.  Other  reports  were  to  the 
effect  that  a  snow-white  figure  suddenly  appeared 
from  nowhere,  hurled  the  sentries  about  with 
superhuman  strength  and  vanished  into  thin 
air.  All  accounts  agreed  that  Spring-heeled 
Jack's  movements  were  absolutely  noiseless. 
The  whole  population  of  Colchester,  both  military 
and  civil,  was  deeply  stirred.  Sentries  were 
everywhere  doubled  and,  even  then,  went  on  their 
rounds  with  shaking  knees  and  perspiring  brows. 
They  themselves  were  firmly  convinced  that 
Spring-heeled  Jack  was  the  devil.  We,  in  the 
officers'  mess,  were  just  as  firmly  convinced  that 
it  was  Lieut.  Alfrey  of  the  60th  Rifles.  Probably 
both  were  wrong.  Alfrey  was  a  very  big  and  power- 
ful man,  but  extraordinarily  active.  He  used  to 
come  out  with  the  Essex  and  Suffolk  hounds 
on  a  grey  polo-pony  of  about  fourteen  hands, 
and  it  was  the  prettiest  sight  in  the  world  to 
see  the  two  in  combination.  On  approaching 
a  five-barred  gate,  Alfrey  would  vault  off  his 
pony's  back  whilst  in  full  career.  He  and  the 
pony  would  then  jump  the  gate  side  by  side,  after 
which  he  would  vault  back  into  the  saddle  and 
continue  the  chase  until  the  next  gate  was  reached, 
when  the  performance  would  be  repeated. 

Our  suspicions  that  Alfrey  was  the  culprit  were 

163 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

strengthened  when  we  moved  to  Aldershot  in 
the  wmter  of  1879.  The  60th  moved  to  Aldershot 
about  the  same  time,  and,  at  once,  Spring-heeled 
Jack  made  his  appearance  in  the  new  camp 
and  commenced  his  old  pranks  on  the  night 
sentries.  At  Aldershot,  the  general  panic 
became  so  great  that  eventually  Spring-heeled 
Jack  was  officially  proclaimed  in  General  Orders ; 
ball  cartridge  was  handed  out  to  the  sentries 
and  these  were  ordered  to  shoot  the  night  terror 
on  sight.  These  measures  proved  effective  and 
Spring-heeled  Jack  was  seen  no  more.  Whether 
it  really  was  Alfrey  or  not  I  have  never  learnt, 
and  it  would  be  interesting  to  have  some  pro- 
nouncement on  the  subject  from  his  own  lips 
or  from  his  own  pen.  His  equipment  was  sup- 
posed to  consist  of  rubber-soled  shoes  and  a  sheet 
which  was  white  on  one  side  and  black  on  the 
other. 

In  the  later  Seventies,  life  at  Aldershot  was 
inclined  to  be  riotous,  and  more  champagne 
flowed  than  was  good  either  for  the  pockets  or 
the  stomachs  of  those  who  were  quartered  there. 
As  an  inevitable  consequence  of  this  alcoholic 
tendency,  the  after-dinner  mood  was  a  reckless 
one,  and  many  insane  wagers  used  to  be  made 
between  brother- officers  or  their  guests  and  to 
be  settled  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  One  of 
the  most  insane  of  these  wagers,  and  one  that 
occurs  to  me  at  the  moment,  was  a  bet  made  by 
Dalbiac  of  the  Horse  Gunners,  commonly  known 
as  "  The  Treasure,"  that  he  would  drive  a  dog- 

164 


SOLDIERING 

cart  round  Cocked-hat  Wood  against  Dick  Fort 
of  my  regiment  on  foot.  It  was  agreed  that  the 
bet  should  be  settled  on  the  spot  and,  as  the 
H.A.  barracks  were  almost  opposite  to  the  East 
Cavalry  barracks  which  sheltered  my  regiment, 
it  was  not  many  minutes  before  "  The  Treasure  " 
was  back  in  his  dog-cart.  Fort  in  the  meanwhile 
had  donned  running  costume,  and  off  the  two 
started,  Dalbiac  at  a  mad  gallop  and  Fort  at 
a  slow,  plodding  jog-trot.  The  rest  of  us  having 
seen  them  start  returned  to  the  Mess  to  await 
developments.  At  the  end  of  about  ninety 
minutes.  Fort,  who  was  a  good  runner,  reappeared, 
but  not  so  Dalbiac.  A  search  party  was  organised 
and  we  all  started  out  for  the  Long  Valley  with 
lanterns,  and,  after  a  long  search  and  much 
shouting,  to  which  there  was  no  response,  came 
upon  four  hoofs  and  two  wheels  sticking  up  in 
the  air  from  the  depths  of  one  of  the  deep  sandy 
nullahs  just  short  of  Cocked-hat  Wood.  A 
faint  voice  from  below  the  wheels  informed  us 
that  Dalbiac  was  still  alive,  and  we  then  set 
to  work  to  get  the  horse  and  dog-cart  clear  of 
him.  It  was  a  ticklish  business,  for  the  horse 
might  very  well  have  kicked  his  brains  out,  but 
we  eventually  managed  it,  and  then  proceeded 
to  extract  Dalbiac  from  the  very  bottom  of  the 
nullah,  the  narrowness  of  which  had  saved  him 
from  the  full  weight  of  the  horse  and  cart.  He 
was  quite  black  in  the  face  and  unable  to  stand, 
but  we  lifted  him  on  to  a  led  pony  and  managed 
to  get  him  home,  though  half-way  there  he  was 

165 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

seized  with  a  convulsive  fit.  Next  morning 
there  was  a  field-day,  and,  to  our  utter  amaze- 
ment, there  was  "  The  Treasure "  as  fresh  as 
paint  at  the  head  of  his  famous  chestnut  troop. 

Dalbiac  was,  at  that  time,  easily  the  best 
steeplechase  rider  in  the  army.  He  was  also  a 
very  remarkable  sprinter,  and  used  to  make  a 
lot  of  money  by  backing  himself  to  run  eighty 
yards  against  any  horse  over  sixteen  hands. 
He  almost  always  won,  but  against  a  pony  he 
had,  of  course,  no  chance.  He  was  killed,  poor 
chap,  in  the  Boer  War,  leading  a  very  gallant 
but  quite  insane  cavalry  charge  up  a  hill  against 
entrenched  Boers. 

On  another  occasion  not  very  long  after  the 
dog-cart  incident,  I  myself  made  a  wager  which 
was  little  less  idiotic  than  Dalbiac's.  I  had  at 
that  time  a  very  beautiful  thoroughbred  four- 
year-old  named  Monmouth,  by  Prince  Charlie 
out  of  Gay  lass.  Monmouth  was  one  of  the 
quietest  horses  I  ever  rode,  with  a  mouth  like 
silk,  and,  in  a  rash  and  I  am  afraid  slightly 
alcoholic  moment,  I  backed  myself  to  ride  Mon- 
mouth bare-backed  round  Cocked-hat  Wood 
against  Dick  Fort  on  a  slow  but  saddled  hunter. 
It  was  a  pitch-dark  night,  and  we  had  no  sooner 
started  than  I  realised  to  my  horror  that  the  lamb- 
like Monmouth,  excited  either  by  the  strangeness 
of  the  hour  chosen  for  exercise  or  by  the  presence 
of  my  dinner  overalls  on  his  bare  back,  was 
pulling  like  a  steam-tug  and  was  going  exactly 
where  and  how  he  liked.     Like  a  tornado  we 

166 


SOLDIERING 

dashed  through  the  West  Gate  and  along  the 
track  that  led  to  the  Long  Valley.  Monmouth 
had  a  satiny  coat  as  slippery  as  ice,  and  very 
sharp  withers,  and  on  to  these  sharp  withers 
I  was  now  pulled  with  such  steady  pressure 
that  I  was  almost  cut  in  two.  I  was  in  very 
severe  pain  and  absolutely  powerless  either  to 
check  or  guide  the  tearing  whirlwind  between 
my  legs.  All  that  I  could  do  was  to  keep  my 
balance,  and  that  was  far  from  easy  on  account 
of  the  horse's  slippery  satiny  coat,  and,  as  I 
have  already  said,  desperately  painful.  The 
darkness  was  so  intense  that  I  could  not  see 
twenty  yards  ahead  of  me,  but  presumably  the 
horse  could,  for  no  disaster  overtook  us  till  quite 
close  to  Cocked-hat  Wood.  What  exactly  hap- 
pened then  I  shall  never  know.  There  was  a 
terrific  crash  :  I  saw  any  number  of  stars  and 
then  relapsed  into  unconsciousness.  Like  Dal- 
biac,  I  was  eventually  discovered  by  a  search 
party  and  escorted  home,  strange  to  say,  none 
the  worse  except  for  torn  overalls  and  a  split 
stable- jacket. 

Another  horsy  experience  of  mine  at  Aldershot 
had  a  happier  ending.  One  summer  morning 
Sir  Frederick  Fitzwygram  had  my  regiment  and 
the  15th  Hussars  out  in  the  Long  Valley  for  an 
educational  field-day.  In  the  course  of  our 
evolutions.  General  Fitzwygram  got  both  regi- 
ments into  line  and,  according  to  time-honoured 
custom,  sounded  first  "  trot,"  then  "  gallop," 
and,  finally,  "  charge."     It  was,  and  no  doubt 

167 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

still  is,  a  recognised  rule  that  a  charge  should 
automatically  cease  when  a  hundred  yards  have 
been  covered.  On  this  occasion,  however,  for 
some  mad  reason,  the  two  regiments  started  to 
race  one  another  and  charged  for  nearly  a  mile, 
till  the  canal  finally  brought  them  up  short.  I 
made  a  meritorious  effort  to  stop  my  troop  but, 
seeing  fifty  sword-points  directed  at  my  back 
and  impelled  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
I  finally  set  spurs  to  my  horse  and  kept  as  far 
out  of  their  reach  as  possible.  The  result  was 
that  I  was  the  first  to  reach  the  canal.  Of  General 
Fitzwygram's  wrath  I  need  say  nothing,  nor 
of  the  penalties  that  were  put  upon  the  two 
erring  regiments.  The  offence  was  indeed  some- 
what serious,  for  many  horses  fell  and  three  were 
so  badly  injured  that  they  had  to  be  destroyed. 
In  addition,  several  men  had  to  be  taken  to  hos- 
pital. The  one  point  about  the  whole  affair 
which  interested  me  was  that  I  had  reached 
the  canal  first.  This  set  me  thinking,  and  I 
could  arrive  at  no  other  conclusion  except  that 
my  first  charger  must  be  possessed  of  a  turn 
of  speed  of  which  I  had  so  far  no  suspicion,  for 
I  had  never  before  extended  the  horse.  In  order 
to  put  the  matter  to  the  proof  I  determined  to 
enter  him  in  the  Hunters'  Flat  Race  at  the  forth- 
coming Aldershot  summer  meeting.  In  those 
days  it  was  the  easiest  matter  in  the  world  to 
qualify  any  horse  for  Hunters'  races,  and  I 
found  no  difficulty  in  getting  the  necessary 
certificate  from  the  neighbouring  M.F.H. 

168 


SOLDIERING 

The  horse  in  question,  whom  I  had  named 
Cobweb,  was  a  tall,  bony  thoroughbred  chestnut. 
Heaven  only  knows  how  old  he  was,  but  I  should 
imagine  very  far  advanced  in  his  "  teens,"  for 
his  teeth  were  of  monumental  length  and  he  had 
hollows  over  his  eyes  like  teacups.  He  had  the 
most  extravagant  knee-action  of  any  horse  I 
have  ever  seen  and,  when  trotting,  nearly  knocked 
his  teeth  out  with  every  stride.  He  literally 
danced. 

So,  on  the  day  of  the  race,  I  had  the  old  horse 
led  down  to  the  paddock,  where  he  attracted  no 
attention  whatever  as  he  walked  demurely  round. 
The  moment,  however,  that  I  climbed  into  the 
saddle,  a  wave  of  ribald  hilarity  swept  over  the 
whole  assembly.  The  old  horse  no  doubt  mistook 
the  grand-stand  for  the  saluting-point  at  a  Royal 
inspection,  for  he  peacocked  past  with  such 
tremendous  gesticulation  of  the  knees  that  I  was 
almost  shaken  out  of  the  saddle.  Never  shall 
I  forget  the  yells  of  derision  that  saluted  me  as 
we  passed  the  ring. 

"Hi!  governor,  which  way  to  the  circus?" 
"  'Ere.  Twenty  to  one  the  blinking  giraffe," 
and  so  on.  No  doubt  we  presented  a  comical 
sight  enough,  for  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  any 
horse  with  such  extravagant  knee-action  had  ever 
been  seen  on  a  racecourse  before.  I  felt  bitterly 
ashamed  of  myself  and  cursed  my  folly  in  having 
been  such  a  simpleton  as  to  pit  a  peacocky  old 
charger  against  the  silky-actioned  race-horses 
that  were  "  loUopping  "  past  me  with  long,  easy 

169 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

strides  on  their  way  to  the  starting-post.  Verit- 
able race-horses  they  actually  were,  for  very  few 
horses  that  ran  in  Hunters'  Flat  Races  in  those 
days  had  even  been  over  a  fence.  However, 
the  long  and  short  of  it  all  is  that  old  Cobweb 
won  anyhow  over  the  two-mile  course,  having 
led  the  field  from  start  to  finish.  No  one  was 
more  surprised  that  I  was,  and  unfortunately 
I  had  not  a  penny  on  the  race. 

Flushed  by  my  success,  I  next  made  a  match 
over  a  mile  course  against  a  very  fast  horse 
owned  by  Micky  Burke  of  the  7th  D.G.'s,  and 
once  again  Cobweb  won  easily.  His  galloping 
action,  needless  to  say,  was  very  different  from 
his  trot.  He  galloped,  leaning  heavily  on  my 
hand,  with  his  head  low,  his  back  slightly  arched 
and  with  an  immense  stride  which  seemed  to 
annihilate  space.  In  his  youth  he  must  have 
been  an  extraordinarily  fast  horse,  for,  on  both 
occasions,  he  was  practically  untrained,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  he  was  of  patriarchal 
age. 

Some  years  later,  when  my  regiment  went 
from  Leeds  to  Ireland,  I  gave  old  Cobweb  away 
to  an  officer  who  had  risen  from  the  ranks  belong- 
ing to  the  regiment  that  was  taking  our  place. 
He  admired  the  horse  immensely,  and  I  said  I 
would  give  it  to  him  if  he  gave  me  his  solemn 
word  that  he  would  shoot  the  horse  when  he  had 
done  with  him  and  never  give  him  away  or  sell 
him.  He  gave  the  required  undertaking,  but 
I  regret  to  say  did  not  keep  it,  for  he  sold  the 

170 


SOLDIERING 

horse  into  a  Leeds  cab.  I  have  never  forgiven 
that  man,  and  I  never  will.  Poor  old  Cobweb's 
place  as  my  first  charger  was  taken  by  the  famous 
kicking  Gainsborough,  of  whose  exploits  I  have 
already  written. 


171 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOUNSLOW 

From  Aldershot  my  regiment  went  to  Houns- 
low,  which  was  at  that  time,  by  universal  consent, 
the  most  popular  cavalry  station  in  the  south  of 
England.  We  were  within  ten  miles  of  London, 
within  driving  distance  of  many  race-meetings, 
close  to  Kempton  Park,  where  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  management  we  were  allowed  to  train  our 
horses,  and  we  had  a  cricket  ground  in  the  barrack 
square.  We  had  everything,  in  fact,  that  the 
heart  of  a  soldier  can  desire,  except  hunting. 
For  that  we  were — locally — driven  to  the  Queen's. 

Our  cricket  matches  in  the  barracks  were 
great  fun.  The  teams  that  opposed  us  almost 
invariably  came  down  from  London  on  a  coach 
driven  by  one  of  the  team,  dined  with  us  after 
the  match,  and  started  on  their  return  journey 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning — usually  in  a 
musical  and  contented  frame  of  mind. 

For  a  cavalry  regiment  we  really  had  a  very  fair 
side.  Our  captain,  Kildare  Burroughs,  was  very 
nearly  a  first-class  cricketer  and  on  several  occasions 
was  called  on  to  keep  wicket  for  Middlesex.  He 
and  I  had  many  a  merry  innings  together. 
On  one  occasion,  while  we  were  quartered  at 
Colchester,    we   established   something   which    I 

172 


HOUNSLOW 

think  must  have  been  a  record,  for,  in  a  certain 
match  at  Witham,  we  hit  eleven  consecutive 
"  boundaries."  We  were  playing  for  Essex  v. 
South  of  England.  W.  G.  Grace  was  bowling 
at  one  end  and  Southerton  at  the  other — ^both 
tempting  '*  donkey- droppers."  The  boundary 
was  a  very  easy  one — so  easy,  in  fact,  that  by 
preconcerted  arrangement.  Burroughs  and  I 
agreed  to  run  out  and  hit  at  everything  which 
was  at  all  pitched  up.  At  one  period  of  our 
partnership  eleven  consecutive  balls  were  suffici- 
ently pitched  up  for  our  purpose,  and  every  one 
went  either  over  or  under  the  ropes.  They  only 
allowed  us  three  for  a  "  boundary,"  unless  it 
went  over  the  ropes,  so  that  in  many  cases  we 
had  to  cross  over,  which  made  it  all  the  more 
exciting.  The  "  old  man,"  as  they  used  to  call 
W.  G.,  was  absolutely  delighted  at  our  dis- 
respectful treatment  of  his  bowling.  He  roared 
with  laughter.  Southerton  was  not  so  pleased. 
My  end  came  in  trying  to  hit  the  twelfth 
"  boundary."  The  ball  was  a  little  too  short 
and  I  missed  it,  and  was  stumped  by  Pooley. 
My  total  was  only  thirty-three,  but  Burroughs 
stayed  till  he  had  made  eighty. 

We  generally  won  our  matches  at  Hounslow, 
partly,  I  think,  because  of  the  good  luncheons 
we  provided,  and  partly  because  we  knew  the 
ground,  which  was  a  very  bad  one.  There  was 
only  about  an  inch  of  turf  above  the  gravel, 
and,  as  a  consequence,  the  eccentricity  of  the 
projectile  was,  at  times,  very  marked  and  very 

173 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

disconcerting  to  the  batsman.  The  fast  under- 
hand "  grubs,"  which  were  the  only  form  of 
bowUng  I  could  aspire  to,  and  which  had  little 
value  on  a  true  wicket,  were  enormously  helped 
by  the  ups  and  downs  of  the  Hounslow  wicket, 
and,  aided  by  these,  I  once  bowled  nine  wickets 
of  a  strong  Eton  Rambler  team,  whose  subsequent 
comments  on  the  nature  of  the  pitch,  and  on 
"grub"  bowlers  and  bowling  in  general,  were  more 
forcible  than  friendly.  As  a  rule,  however,  the 
actual  cricket  was  not  taken  too  seriously,  and  it 
was  noticeable  that  the  side  which  batted  after 
luncheon  developed  a  certain  light-hearted  reck- 
lessness of  demeanour  which  made  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  onlookers  rather  than  for  high  scores. 
It  need  scarcely  be  added  that  my  nine  wickets 
afore-mentioned  were  obtained  after  luncheon. 

The  opposing  teams,  as  I  have  said,  always 
dined  with  us  and  we  always  did  our  best  to 
entertain  them  hospitably,  and  generally  with 
success.  We  succeeded,  I  remember,  particularly 
well  with  a  certain  House  of  Commons  team 
which  included  one  actual  Secretary  of  State 
and  several  others  who  were  destined  to  become 
future  ornaments  of  the  Cabinet.  The  dinner 
was  a  marked  success,  and  the  musical  efforts 
of  the  good  legislators,  as  they  drove  away 
through  the  barrack  gate,  would  certainly  have 
startled  their  constituencies. 

Once  the  regiment  had,  so  to  speak,  a  very 
bad  fall.  Among  the  members  of  a  certain 
Zingari  team  that  came  down  to  play  us  were 

174 


HOUNSLOW 

Grannie  and  Esme  Gordon,  surely  two  of  the 
handsomest  and  most  fascinating  personaHties 
that  the  last  half-century  has  produced.  Their 
good  looks  and  their  cheeriness  were  outstanding 
to  the  eye  of  the  world,  and  it  need  scarcely  be 
said  that  they  contributed  in  no  small  measure 
to  the  conviviality  of  our  dinner.  It  was  not  till 
after  dinner  that  we  learned  to  our  sorrow  that 
the  physical  endowments  of  the  brothers  did 
not  begin  and  end  with  a  pleasing  exterior. 

I  may  mention  that  it  was  not  our  custom  after 
these  dinners  to  sit  for  long  in  meditative  or 
digestive  repose.  Some  stimulating  exercise, 
either  vocal  or  muscular,  usually  followed  closely 
on  the  drinking  of  the  Queen's  health — not  by 
preconcerted  arrangement,  but  simply  as  the 
natural  outcome  of  what  had  gone  before.  How 
exactly  these  things  are  set  in  motion  no  man  can 
say.  They  just  happen.  On  the  occasion  in 
question,  we  found  ourselves  challenging  the  two 
Gordons,  or  the  two  Gordons  challenging  us  (it 
matters  little  which)  to  a  variety  of  acrobatic 
exercises  for  which  the  large  Mess  premises  at 
Hounslow  seemed  specially  fitted,  but  for  which 
we  had  so  far  neglected  to  employ  them.  It  is 
distressing  to  have  to  record  that,  in  the  com- 
petitions which  followed,  the  regiment  came  off 
distinctly  second  best.  The  Gordon  brothers 
beat  us  all  round. 

First  of  all  Grannie  challenged  our  champion 
at  billiards  and  beat  him  very  heavily.  Then  he 
vaulted  over  the  corner  of  the  table,  with  one 

175 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

hand  holding  the  pocket,  which  none  of  us  could 
do.  Esme  then  challenged  any  and  all  of  us  to 
jump  two  chairs  placed  back  to  back  from  an 
"  all  fours  "  position  on  the  floor.  He  approached 
the  two  chairs  on  all  fours  like  a  dog,  bucked 
over  and  landed  on  his  hands  without  touching 
either  chair.  Several  blithe  spirits,  in  the 
evanescent  confidence  which  is  so  often  noticeable 
between  9.30  p.m.  and  midnight,  attempted  the 
feat,  but  only  succeeded  in  losing  a  quantity  of 
skin  and  in  gaining  a  number  of  bruises  in 
exchange. 

We  had  not  practised  drawing-room  acrobatics 
as  a  regiment,  but  there  was  one  trick  to  which 
we  had  devoted  a  certain  amount  of  study  and 
in  which  we  took  a  certain  regimental  pride. 
This  trick  consisted  in  standing  with  one's  back 
to  the  edge  of  an  open  door,  clasping  the  top  of 
the  door  with  both  hands  and  circling  up  till  one 
sat  astride  the  top  of  the  door.  Our  regimental 
champion  at  this  exercise  was  Pat  Close,  who, 
after  having  demonstrated  the  feat  to  our 
visitors,  challenged  them  to  do  the  like.  To  our 
no  little  surprise,  Esme  Gordon  proved  equal  to 
the  occasion,  and  managed — not  without  some 
little  difficulty — to  establish  himself  astride  the 
door.  It  is  not  an  easy  trick  to  carry  through, 
as  anyone  can  find  out  for  himself  by  making  the 
attempt,  and  it  has  one  rather  painful  moment, 
when  the  collar-bone  comes  in  contact  with  the 
door-edge.  After  this  Grannie  turned  somersaults 
in  a  chair  without  leaving  the  chair,  which  again 

176 


HOUNSLOW 

proved  beyond  our  powers;  and,  as  there  were 
wagers  on  all  these  events,  the  end  of  it  all  was 
that  the  Lords  Granville  and  Esme  Gordon  left 
Hounslow  Barracks  considerably  enriched  in 
pocket,  while  the  regiment  was  correspondingly 
poorer. 

Those  were  days  when  every  well-regulated 
subaltern,  who  was  quartered  within  fifty  miles 
of  London,  thought  it  necessary  to  attend  the 
Gaiety  Theatre  at  least  once  a  week.  Here 
Terry,  Royce,  Kate  Vaughan  and  Nellie  Farren, 
supported  by  a  much  better-looking  chorus  than 
any  theatre  can  boast  to-day,  dispensed  burlesque 
in  the  old-fashioned  jingle  rhyme  to  rows  of 
callow  youths  in  high  collars  decorating  the 
first  four  rows  of  the  stalls.  That  the  old  Gaiety 
chorus  was  better-looking  than  any  present-day 
chorus  is  not  attributable  to  any  decadence  in 
feminine  grace,  but  simply  to  the  fact  that  the 
Gaiety  was  in  those  days  the  only  theatre  which 
gave  burlesque,  and  it  could  therefore  pick  and 
choose  from  the  troops  of  young  ladies  whose 
ambition  lay  in  wearing  pink  tights  and  in 
simpering  from  behind  footlights  to  their  admirers 
in  front.  They  never  could  sing  a  note,  or  dance, 
or  indeed  do  anything  but  look  pretty,  and  they 
invariably  wore  tights.  Nowadays  the  majority 
of  revue  choruses  are  composed  of  girls  dressed 
as  girls — very  lightly  dressed  sometimes,  but 
still  unmistakably  dressed  as  girls.  Male  im- 
personators are  the  exception.  In  the  Seventies, 
if  I  remember  right,  there  were  never  any  petti- 
N  177 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

coated  girls  in  the  Gaiety  chorus.  All  were 
invariably  male  impersonators,  with  their  legs 
in  silk  tights  and  their  bodies  in  stiff  tight  tunics. 
This  fashion  certainly  lasted  without  change  for 
ten  years.  Nellie  Farren  herself  was  invariably 
dressed  in  tights  and  tunic.  No  one  ever  saw 
her  on  the  stage  at  the  period  I  am  writing 
of  in  petticoats  or  as  anything  but  a  male 
impersonator. 

Nellie  Farren  was  unquestionably  the  most 
successful  burlesque  actress  of  the  past  fifty 
years.  It  is  true  that  she  had  practically  no 
competitors,  for  the  Gaiety  alone  provided  the 
form  of  entertainment  in  which  she  shone,  but, 
none  the  less,  I  think  one  may  safely  say  that  no 
one  in  that  particular  line  of  business  has  ever 
achieved  the  same  measure  of  popularity.  It  is 
difficult  to  say  in  what  exactly  lay  the  secret  of 
her  success.  When  I  first  knew  her  on  the  stage, 
she  was  no  longer  young  and  was  not  particularly 
good-looking.  She  could  neither  dance  nor  sing 
and  was  handicapped  by  a  weak,  husky  voice. 
And  yet  her  hold  on  the  public  was  something 
"  abune  by-ordinar,"  as  the  Scots  say.  If  by 
chance  she  were  ill  or  unable  to  appear,  all  the 
counter-attractions  of  her  understudy  and  of 
Terry,  Royce,  Kate  Vaughan  and  the  beauty 
chorus  combined  failed  to  dispel  the  overwhelm- 
ing sense  of  loss  that  her  absence  caused.  Some 
have  thought  that  the  secret  of  her  power  lay 
in  her  complete  unconsciousness  of  sex,  and  there 
may  be  some  truth  in  that,  but  I  think  it  was 

178 


HOUNSLOW 

mainly  due  to  her  unquenchable  vitality  and 
animal  magnetism.  The  moment  she  was  on 
the  stage,  a  piece  which  before  had  hung  fire 
seemed  to  go  with  a  swing,  and  yet  she  never 
exerted  herself  or  appeared  to  have  any  particular 
desire  to  please.  It  was  simply  her  being  herself 
that  did  it.  In  person  she  was  of  medium  size 
with  very  well-shaped  legs  and  a  curious  kind  of 
stiff,  strutting  gait.  She  had  a  round  face,  very 
wide-open  round  eyes,  and  a  little  pursed-up 
mouth.  Her  expression  was  one  of  perpetually 
surprised  amusement  and  hardly  ever  changed. 
She  never  laughed. 

While  on  the  subject  of  the  Gaiety  and  its 
chorus,  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  record  an 
incident  which  occurred  while  we  were  at  Houns- 
low,  and  as  to  which  many  ill-natured  and  quite 
unfounded  insinuations  were  made  at  the  time. 
The  facts  were  these.  It  was  determined  in 
regimental  conclave  to  give  a  dance  in  barracks, 
and,  as  we  had  no  acquaintances  among  the 
Hounslow  ladies,  and  as  a  dance  can  only  take 
place  with  the  assistance  of  ladies,  it  was  decided 
to  invite  down  the  Gaiety  chorus  to  fill  the 
deficiency.  The  invitation  was  accompanied  by 
an  offer  to  put  the  ladies  up  for  the  night,  and 
was  formally  accepted  by  C.  G.,  who  acted  as 
spokesman  for  the  others,  on  the  express  under- 
standing that  all  those  who  responded  to  the 
invitation  were  to  be  treated  from  first  to  last 
with  distant  respect.  The  undertaking  was  gladly 
given  and  subscribed  to  by  all  the  junior  officers 

179 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

at  Hounslow  at  the  time.  Half  the  regiment  was 
away  on  long  leave,  so  that  there  was  plenty  of 
accommodation  in  the  absent  officers'  rooms,  to 
each  of  which — at  their  own  special  request — 
two  of  the  ladies  were  assigned. 

The  entertainment  was  an  immense  success. 
All  enjoyed  themselves  amazingly  and,  in  the 
early  morning,  the  sleepy  ladies  went  off  in  cabs 
to  the  station,  after  refreshing  themselves  with 
cups  of  tea  discreetly  handed  into  their  rooms 
through  chinks  in  the  doors. 

This  absolutely  innocent  escapade  created  a 
most  desperate  stir.  The  World  was  the  first 
paper  to  take  it  up,  and  others  followed  with  all 
sorts  of  ridiculous  exaggerations  and  insulting 
comments.  Finally  the  Duke  himself  bombarded 
the  regiment  with  a  Note  of  the  most  furious  and 
condemnatory  type;  explanations  were  called 
for  and  threats  of  dire  penalties  were  held  over 
our  heads.  All  this  would  have  been  bearable 
enough  except  for  the  fatuous  attitude  taken  up 
by  street  acquaintances.  These  humorous  asses 
flatly  refused  to  believe  that  the  temporary 
association  of  the  Gaiety  chorus  and  the  11th 
Hussars  had  been  as  scrupulously  platonic  as  was 
really  the  case.  We,  on  our  side,  were  much 
incensed  at  the  incredulity  of  the  world,  for  was 
not  our  solemn  word  passed,  and  were  we  not 
before  all  else  officers  and  gentlemen? 

Another  incident  which  called  down  upon  us 
the  wrath  of  the  good  Duke  was  in  connection 
with  a  cricket  match  in  the  barracks  against  the 

180 


HOUNSLOW 

Eton  Ramblers  in  1881.  We,  the  juniors  in  the 
regiment,  were  considerably  annoyed  at  that 
time  at  being  unable  to  retain  the  services  of  our 
own  band  for  cricket  matches  and  other  similar 
festivities.  Our  band,  which  was  a  good  one, 
was  in  great  request  in  the  neighbourhood,  partly 
because  of  its  good  music  and  partly,  I  think, 
because  of  its  crimson  overalls;  and  it  was 
perpetually  being  sent  about  all  over  the  country 
to  play  at  suburban  functions  when  we  ourselves 
badly  needed  it  at  home.  A  distinguished  team 
of  Eton  Ramblers  was  expected  down  to  play 
against  us  during  the  day  and  dine  with  us  at 
night,  and  we  wanted  our  band  to  cheer  things 
up  and  do  them  honour.  We  were  told  that  it 
was  already  engaged  to  play  at  the  Twickenham 
Temperance  Society's  third  anniversary,  or 
something  of  the  kind,  and  we  were  highly,  and 
I  think  justly,  incensed.  In  this  mood  we  wired 
for  the  Blue  Hungarian  Band  to  come  down  from 
London  and  play  during  the  afternoon  and 
evening.  The  cost,  of  course,  was  considerable, 
but  the  thing  was  really  done  as  a  protest  against 
the  alienation  of  our  own  band,  and — as  a  protest 
— it  succeeded  beyond  belief.  The  papers  were 
full  of  this  new  instance  of  the  criminal  ex- 
travagance of  the  11th  Hussars.  The  Duke  once 
more  took  the  matter  up  in  a  very  stern  and 
minatory  mood,  and  the  culprits  were  severely 
censured.  But  thereafter  we  had  our  own  band  ! 
The  wrath  of  the  old  Duke,  when  roused,  was 
loud  and  plain-spoken,  and  we  all  bowed  before 

181 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

it  because  we  loved  him  and  hated  to  cause  him 
annoyance.  He  was  very  fond  of  our  regiment, 
and  the  feeling  was  fully  reciprocated  by  all  of 
us.  I  personally  had  a  special  reverence  and 
veneration  for  H.R.H.,  for  on  one  occasion  it 
was  his  kindly  offices  that  alone  saved  me  from 
feeling  the  full  weight  of  the  War  Office  arm. 
The  circumstances  were  these. 

In  December  1883,  Lord  Mayor  Dawson  of 
Dublin  was  advertised  to  speak  in  Derry,  and  as 
he  had  lately  been  giving  vent  to  most  seditious 
and  anti-British  utterances  in  his  own  town,  the 
loyalists  of  Derry  determined  to  protest  against 
his  spreading  similar  doctrines  in  the  Maiden 
City.  With  this  worthy  object  in  view  a  meeting 
of  the  well-disposed  was  arranged  in  the  Prentice 
Boys'  Hall  at  Derry,  and,  as  I  was  the  only 
member  of  my  family  at  Barons  Court  at  the 
time,  I  was  told  off  to  attend  the  meeting  and 
lend  the  support  of  my  presence  to  the  protest. 
So  off  I  set,  feeling  that,  if  I  were  not  the  hub  of 
the  universe,  I  was,  at  least,  for  the  occasion,  the 
hub  of  Ulster. 

At  the  meeting  in  the  Prentice  Boys'  Hall 
many  speeches  expressive  of  loyal  indignation 
were  delivered;  the  enthusiasm  of  those  who 
listened  rose  with  each  succeeding  speech,  till, 
in  the  end,  it  was  decided  that  the  only  course 
open  to  the  good  and  true  was  to  occupy  the 
Town  Hall  (in  which  Mr.  Dawson  was  advertised 
to  speak)  and  so  to  prevent  his  delivering  himself 
of  his  noxious  doctrines.     No  sooner  was  the 

182 


HOUNSLOW 

suggestion  made  than  it  was  acted  upon.  In  a 
body  we  marched  to  the  Diamond  and  there 
took  possession  of  the  Town  Hall,  barred  and 
bolted  the  doors  and  prepared  to  resist  the  siege 
which  we  knew  must  follow. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  partisans  of  the  Lord 
Mayor  had  assembled  at  the  railway  station  in 
their  hundreds,  and,  on  the  arrival  of  the  Dublin 
train,  the  Nationalist  crowd  marched  up  with 
bands  playing  and  banners  flying  to  the  Town 
Hall,  which,  to  their  marked  annoyance,  they 
found  in  the  occupation  of  the  enemy.  In  those 
days  the  Town  Hall  was  an  isolated  building 
standing  on  the  ground  now  occupied  by  the 
public  gardens  in  the  Diamond.  Round  and 
round  this  building  drove  the  Lord  Mayor  in 
speechless  indignation  and  accompanied  by  an 
exasperated  mob  of  admirers,  but  there  was  no 
possible  means  of  obtaining  admission  except 
by  force,  and  there  was  a  strong  argument 
against  the  application  of  force  in  the  shape  of  a 
most  determined  garrison  inside.  After  a  time 
the  Lord  Mayor  resigned  himself  to  the  in- 
evitable and  drove  off,  and  eventually  held  his 
meeting  in  the  slaughter-house,  which  we  con- 
sidered an  eminently  suitable  spot;  but  for  the 
rest  of  the  day  the  Nationalist  crowd  surged 
round  and  round  the  Town  Hall,  shaking  impotent 
fists,  and  breathing  war  and  threatenings. 

About  3  p.m.  the  demonstration  outside  grew 
more  distinctly  hostile.  I  was  watching  the 
scene  with  much  amusement  from  one  of  the 

183 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

windows  when  I  noticed  that  the  yelling  and 
booing  were  punctuated  by  a  number  of  little 
pops  which  sounded  like  corks  being  drawn.  I 
heard  the  sound  of  broken  glass  from  one  of  the 
Town  Hall  windows,  and  I  saw  a  man  in  the 
street  throw  up  his  arms  and  collapse  in  a  heap, 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  realised  that 
revolvers  were  being  freely  used  on  both  sides. 
The  crowd  outside  melted  away,  carrying  the 
fallen  man  with  them,  and,  after  some  seven 
hours'  incarceration  in  the  Town  Hall,  we  inside — 
having  learned  that  the  Lord  Mayor  had  returned 
to  Dublin — sallied  forth  and  marched  in  provoca- 
tive procession  through  the  Nationalist  quarters. 
At  various  points  we  were  assailed  by  bottles 
hurled  from  windows,  but  no  one  was  seriously 
hurt,  and  about  7  p.m.  a  detachment  of  the 
17th  Lancers  arrived  from  Enniskillen  and  peace 
was  restored.  The  man,  however,  whom  I  had 
seen  shot  was  killed,  and  I  was  not  only  summoned 
to  give  evidence  at  the  inquest,  but  was  actually 
indicted  for  having  headed  a  riot,  while  an  officer 
in  H.M.  forces,  and  having  caused  loss  of  life. 
But  for  the  Duke  I  should  have  run  a  very  grave 
risk  of  being  turned  out  of  the  army,  but  he 
represented  that  I  was  only  a  youth  and  a  mere 
puppet  in  the  movement  which  had  resulted  in 
the  unfortunate  man's  death.  I  was  absolved, 
but  the  escape  was  a  narrow  one. 

The  Duke  was  not  only  one  of  the  kindest  of 
men,  he  was  also  one  of  the  ablest.  As  his 
galloper  on  many  occasions  during  sham  fights 

184 


HOUNSLOW 

on  the  Fox  Hills,  I  had  ample  opportunity  for 
gauging  H.R.H.'s  ability  as  a  generalissimo. 
There  is  no  question  that  he  stood  out  from  all 
the  Aldershot  "  cocked-hats  "  of  my  time.  Of 
course  he  never  personally  commanded  either  of 
the  opposing  sides,  but  his  detection  of  the 
slightest  tactical  error  on  the  part  of  those  who 
did  command  was  instantaneous.  He  had  the 
eye  of  a  hawk  and  the  unerring  instinct  of  the 
born  military  leader,  and  he  never  hesitated  to 
point  out  their  errors  to  offending  Generals  in 
language  which  there  was  no  mistaking.  As  a 
speaker,  too,  of  a  certain  kind,  the  Duke  was 
certainly  second  to  none  in  the  kingdom.  H.R.H. 
came  down  to  inspect  the  regiment  at  Aldershot 
before  it  sailed  for  India  somewhere  in  the  Nine- 
ties. I  was  present  on  the  occasion  as  a  guest 
of  the  regiment.  At  the  end  of  the  inspection, 
the  Duke  formed  the  regiment  up  in  quarter- 
column  and  made  a  speech  which  lasted  some 
ten  minutes.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  will  not 
say  that  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  regiment, 
but  I  will  certainly  say  that  a  number  of  the 
N.C.O.'s  and  men  were  very  visibly  affected. 
It  was  a  very  wonderful  speech,  manly  and 
vigorous,  but  at  the  same  time  intensely  pathetic. 
The  Duke  was  at  that  time  an  old  man,  and  the 
speech  was  in  the  nature  of  a  lasting  farewell  to 
a  regiment  which  he  loved,  but  which,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  he  would  never  again  inspect. 

Another  member  of  the  Royal  family  who  was 
a  constant  and  welcome  visitor  at  our  Hounslow 

185 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

Mess  was  the  late  Duke  of  Teck,  who  was,  at  that 
time,  in  the  occupation  of  the  White  Lodge  in 
Richmond  Park.  He  was  very  fond  of  lunching 
and  dining  with  us,  and,  generally,  took  a  keen 
interest  in  the  regiment.  I  remember  being 
particularly  struck  by  the  fact  that  he  had 
forgotten  most  of  his  German.  We  had  a  German 
in  the  regiment,  and  the  Prince  expressed  a  wish 
to  see  him  and  talk  to  him.  I  myself  led  him  to 
the  man,  but,  when  conversation  began,  H.S.H. 
found  himself  quite  unable  to  express  himself 
adequately  in  German,  and  had  in  the  end  to 
revert  to  English. 

The  Prince  was  the  soul  of  hospitality  and  was 
always  asking  me  over  to  the  White  Lodge.  I 
enjoyed  these  visits  more  than  I  can  say,  for 
there  was  no  kinder  or  more  entertaining  hostess 
in  England  than  Princess  Mary  of  beloved 
memory.  During  my  wanderings  about  the 
White  Lodge  grounds,  I  would  occasionally — 
but  only  occasionally — get  a  glimpse  of  the 
present  Queen,  at  that  time  a  pretty  but  rather 
shy  girl  of  fifteen. 

I  think  those  Hounslow  days  succeeded  in 
breaking  most  of  the  regiment.  We  were 
unfortunately  situated  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  racing  country.  Ascot,  Epsom,  Sandown, 
Kempton,  Egham  and  Hampton  were  all  within 
driving  distance  of  the  regimental  coach,  and  at 
each  of  these  places  the  regiment  thought  it 
necessary  to  entertain  the  world.  Our  regimental 
races  were  held  the  first  year  at  Sandown,  and 
the  second  at  Kempton,  and  at  each  of  these 

186 


HOUNSLOW 

places,  and  at  Ascot  in  each  year,  a  huge  crimson 
and  yellow  (regimental  colours)  marquee  proffered 
unstinted  hospitality  to  all  comers.  It  was  very 
magnificent  but  very  foolish,  and  I  think  we  only 
got  ridicule  for  our  pains  and  little  thanks. 

I  remember  on  one  occasion,  when  we  had  our 
regimental  races  at  Kempton,  the  Duke  of 
Albany  and  the  Duke  of  Cambridge  had  both 
accepted  our  invitation  to  luncheon,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  the  long  table  with  its  load  of 
elaborate  dishes  and  regimental  plate  was  by 
common  consent  left  undisturbed  till  the  arrival 
of  the  Royalties.  I  had  just  ridden  the  winner  of 
the  Regimental  Cup,  beating  the  favourite  by 
a  length,  and  I  was  standing  inside  the  marquee, 
mildly  celebrating  the  event  with  Bob  Hardy, 
the  owner  of  the  horse,  when,  to  my  amazement, 
five  members  of  a  certain  regiment  burst  into 
the  tent,  sat  down  uninvited  and  began  shouting 
to  the  waiters  to  bring  them  champagne,  while 
they  piled  up  their  plates  from  all  the  dishes 
within  reach,  thereby  quite  ruining  the  virgin 
appearance  of  the  table.  In  dumb  amazement 
I  stood  and  watched  them  till — having  had  all 
they  wanted — they  swaggered  out  again  without 
a  word  of  thanks  either  to  Bob  Hardy  or  myself, 
or  anyone  else  for  that  matter.  One  of  these 
barbarians  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  peer,  another 
was  his  brother  and  a  third  was  a  well-known 
baronet.  Although  that  incident  occurred  over 
forty  years  ago,  it  still  holds  the  record  in  my 
memory  as  the  most  ungentlemanly  act  I  have 
ever  witnessed. 

187 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BALLINCOLLIG 

From  Hounslow  my  regiment  went  to  Leeds, 
and  from  Leeds  to  BallincoUig.  At  Ballincollig 
we  took  over  the  old  Muskerry  hounds  and  hunted 
the  country  twice  a  week.  On  our  arrival  we 
were  invaded  by  a  perfect  swarm  of  local  horse- 
dealers — amateur  and  professional — who  assured 
us  that  to  ride  our  English  horses  over  their 
country  would  be  to  invite  certain  death,  and 
who — out  of  solicitude  for  our  necks — offered  to 
provide  us  with  any  number  of  safe  and  talented 
horses  from  their  own  stables,  the  majority  of 
whom — needless  to  say — were  by  Victor  (compared 
to  whom  Solomon  must  have  been  a  confirmed 
bachelor)  out  of  a  Birdcatcher  mare.  Firmly  but 
politely,  however,  we  declined  these  friendly  offers, 
preferring,  as  we  told  our  well-wishers,  to  face 
the  certain  death  which  they  predicted  for  us  on 
our  English  horses,  to  the  expense  of  new  pur- 
chases. Fortunately  their  predictions  were  not 
verified.  We  schooled  our  horses  over  the  banks 
at  the  back  of  the  barracks  for  a  week,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  they  were  as  safe  conveyances 
as  any  horses  in  the  country. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  an  Irish  bank  country  is 
the  easiest  in  the  world  to  ride  over.  It  is  very 
rare  indeed  to  see  a  fall  over  a  bank;  only  when 

188 


BALLINCOLLIG 

the  bank  is  narrow  and  rotten  is  there  any  chance 
of  a  fall,  and  even  then  it  is  seldom  a  bad  one. 

As  an  instance  of  what  an  extraordinarily  easy 
fence  a  hunting  bank  is  for  a  horse  to  negotiate 
in  safety,  I  may  relate  an  incident  which  occurred 
to  myself  during  our  early  days  at  BallincoUig. 
I  was  hunting  with  our  own  hounds  on  my  second 
charger,  who  was  only  an  indifferent  performer, 
when  a  local  acquaintance  came  up  to  me  and — 
after  a  few  disparaging  remarks  at  the  expense 
of  my  mount — volunteered  the  information  that 
he  had  at  home  a  certain  four-year-old  (by 
Victor,  of  course)  which  could  jump  anything 
on  earth  and  gallop  round  the  horse  I  was  riding 
at  the  moment.  Being  more  or  less  new  to  the 
south  of  Ireland,  I  accepted  all  this  as  fact,  or  at 
least  as  something  approaching  to  fact,  and,  on 
the  following  day,  I  rode  over  to  my  friend's 
residence,  which  was  some  nine  miles  distant.  A 
very  nice-looking  young  horse  was  brought  out 
for  my  inspection  and,  after  having  gone  through 
the  usual  routine  of  punching  and  pinching,  I 
climbed  up,  and  proceeded  to  gallop  him  over 
the  neighbouring  fields.  The  horse  was  a  gallant 
little  beast  and  had  no  idea  of  refusing,  but  he 
negotiated  the  banks  very  clumsily  indeed  and, 
though  he  did  not  actually  fall,  scrambled  about 
a  good  deal.  I  returned  to  where  the  owner  stood 
watching,  and  explained  that,  though  to  my  mind 
the  horse  had  the  makings  of  a  good  one,  he  was 
not  exactly  what  I  wanted,  which  was  a  made 
hunter. 

189 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

"  Then  you'll  not  have  him  ?  "  he  said,  a  trifle 
truculently,  as  I  thought. 

"  No,  I  am  afraid  not,"  I  replied. 

*'  Well,"  he  said,  "  I'm  greatly  obliged  to  you 
for  the  schooling,  anyway.  To  tell  the  truth, 
this  is  the  first  day  the  little  harse  has  ever  seen 
a  fence."  And  I  had  ridden  over  nine  miles  for 
this! 

Hunting  had  its  drawbacks  in  Co.  Cork  in  the 
year  of  grace  1885.  When  our  meets  were  publicly 
advertised  we  were  apt  to  find  poisoned  foxes 
hanging  from  the  trees  in  our  best  coverts,  so 
that  eventually  we  had  to  send  round  private 
notices  of  our  fixtures.  Every  sort  of  obstacle 
was  placed  by  the  light-hearted  peasantry  in  the 
way  of  our  sport,  the  reason  assigned  being,  that 
we  hunted  "  in  England's  bloody  red." 

On  one  occasion,  as  the  field  was  passing 
through  a  very  narrow  lane,  we  found  the  way 
blocked  by  three  farm-hands  brandishing  pointed 
pitchforks.  The  leading  file  happened  to  be  a 
certain  Dr.  Cross,  who  lived  close  by  and  who 
hunted  regularly  with  our  hounds  and  was  a  very 
good  man  across  country.  He  promptly  clubbed 
his  hunting  crop,  rode  one  man  down,  broke  the 
head  of  another  and  sent  the  third  scuttling  over 
the  fence  into  an  adjoining  field.  It  was  a  gallant 
piece  of  work,  and  a  notable  example  of  the 
superiority  of  cavalry  over  infantry  under  certain 
conditions.  I  regret  to  say  that,  in  spite  of  my 
testimony  in  the  witness-box  as  to  Dr.  Cross' 
peaceful  attitude  until  attacked,  he  was  heavily 

190 


BALLINCOLLIG 

fined  for  assault  by  a  hostile  jury.  I  regret  still 
more  to  say  that  he  was  hanged  the  following 
year  for  poisoning  his  wife  with  a  view  to  marrying 
the  governess.  The  evidence  was  conflicting  and 
far  from  conclusive,  but  he  was  locally  unpopular, 
and  a  politically  hostile  jury  hanged  him.  The 
prison  officials  pronounced  him  to  be  the  bravest 
man  that  had  ever  faced  death  in  Cork  Gaol. 

On  another  occasion  while  hunting  with  the 
United  Hunt,  a  very  large  field  was  "  held  up  " 
while  trotting  along  the  high-road  from  covert  to 
covert.  The  road  passed  under  a  railway  arch, 
from  wall  to  wall  of  which  the  natives  had  erected 
a  strong  barricade  behind  which  a  score  of  men 
stood  with  big  stones  in  their  hands.  The  railway 
embankment  above  was  lined  by  thirty  or  forty 
more  men  similarly  armed.  On  this  occasion 
money  was  the  only  thing  that  the  "  bhoys  " 
were  out  for,  and  the  tender  of  half-a-crown  pro- 
cured a  free  pass  through  the  barrier.  To  my 
amazement,  almost  everyone  in  the  field,  which 
must  have  numbered  quite  two  hundred,  paid 
up.     I  was  not  amongst  the  number. 

In  the  spring  of  1885  we  held  our  regimental 
races  at  Cork  Park.  It  appeared  that  the  local 
humorists  thought  it  would  be  good  fun  to  see 
the  English  officers  tumble  about  and,  possibly, 
break  their  necks.  In  this  jocular  mood  they 
built  the  fences  (flying  banks)  up  to  an  unprece- 
dented height,  and,  in  a  state  of  pleasurable 
excitement,  assembled  in  large  numbers  to  watch 
developments.     To  their  no  little  annoyance  and 

191 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

disappointment — as  we  afterwards  learned — most 
of  our  horses  got  round  all  right,  nor  were  we 
conscious  of  having  done  anything  out  of  the 
ordinary.  The  two  days  following  our  races, 
however,  were  the  days  appointed  for  the  Cork 
Park  Spring  Steeplechase  meeting,  and  we  then 
learned  for  the  first  time  of  the  special  efforts 
that  had  been  made  for  our  benefit,  for  the  Irish 
jockeys,  after  walking  round  the  course,  one  and 
all  flatly  refused  to  ride  at  the  meeting  unless 
every  fence  on  the  course  was  cut  down  by  a 
foot.  This  was  done  during  the  night  and  the 
meeting  took  place  as  usual.  I  had  a  ride  in  the 
Open  Hunters'  Steeplechase  on  a  horse  of  Lord 
Doneraile's  named  Obadiah,  and  I  can  testify  to 
the  ridiculous  smallness  of  the  fences  as  compared 
with  those  which  our  regimental  horses  had  safely 
negotiated  on  the  preceding  day.  I  still  maintain, 
however,  despite  the  strike  of  the  local  jockeys, 
that  the  fences  before  being  cut  down  were  no 
more  than  fair  steeplechase  fences;  in  proof 
whereof  I  may  mention  that  I  successfully  rode 
over  them  a  very  hard-pulling  mare  belonging 
to  a  brother  officer,  which  had  only  just  arrived 
from  Epsom,  and  which  had  never  seen  a  bank  in 
her  life  before.  In  the  first  race  of  the  day  I 
broke  a  stirrup-leather  after  the  first  fence  and, 
feeling  unequal  to  the  task  of  riding  such  a  tearing 
puller  over  the  fences  with  only  one  stirrup,  I 
pulled  her  on  to  the  flat-race  course  which  lay 
inside  the  other.  Here  we  careered  wildly  round 
for  two  miles  or  so  before  I  could  stop  her.     At 

192 


BALLINCOLLIG 

one  point  in  the  flat-race  course  was  a  flight  of 
hurdles.  Now,  Irish  steeplechase  fences  are  very 
much  smaller  than  those  in  use  on  English  courses, 
but  on  the  other  hand  Irish  hurdles  are  much 
higher.  They  are,  however,  fashioned  of  very 
thin  material  (deal  laths),  and  are  always  fixed 
at  such  a  slope  as  to  reduce  their  height  by  a 
third.  On  the  occasion  in  question,  however,  the 
hurdles,  being  merely  where  they  were  with  a 
view  to  preventing  traffic,  had  been  fixed  perfectly 
upright,  and  looked  strangely  formidable  as  I 
approached  them.  I  shouted  to  the  man  in 
charge  to  pull  one  out  and  let  me  through,  but 
he  either  did  not  or  could  not  hear,  and  so  at 
them  I  had  to  go.  Luckily  the  mare  imitated 
the  example  of  Mr.  Sponge's  "  Multum  in  parvo  " 
and  never  rose  an  inch.  We  crashed  through  the 
lath  hurdles  like  paper  and  I  pursued  my  headlong 
career.  Eventually  I  was  able  to  stop  the  mare 
and  get  her  back  to  the  paddock.  Having  fur- 
nished myself  with  a  pair  of  strong  new  stirrup- 
leathers,  I  rode  her  again  in  the  last  race  of  the 
day  and,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  had  never 
seen  a  bank  before  and  was  a  tearing,  rushing, 
star-gazing  puller,  she  never  touched  a  sod  from 
start  to  finish  and  won  easily.  The  fences,  there- 
fore, very  obviously  cannot  have  been  of  the 
dangerous  height  that  the  Irish  jockeys  fancied. 

At  the  Cork  Park  Spring  meeting  in  question  I 

bought  a  little  entire  horse  named  Canary,  which 

I  sent  to  Warren  Jackson's  training  stable  at 

Aghanesk.     Warren  Jackson  invited  me  to  come 

o  193 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

over  one  morning  and  see  the  horse  gallop.  I 
accordingly  started  very  early  from  Ballincollig 
and  arrived  at  Aghanesk  before  breakfast,  very 
cold  and  hungry.  Warren  Jackson  himself,  his 
friend  and  racing  associate  Peard,  the  vet.,  and 
Leland  Hone  were  walking  about  outside  the 
house  when  my  jaunting  car  set  me  down  at  the 
door. 

"  Would  you  like  a  gallop  ?  "  was  Warren 
Jackson's  first  question,  after  we  had  shaken 
hands  and  before  I  had  even  stripped  myself  of 
my  overcoat.  Now  in  those  days  a  gallop  over 
fences  was  the  one  thing  that  I  loved  more  than 
all  else  on  earth,  so  that  to  such  a  question  there 
could  be  but  one  reply. 

"  I've  a  new  course  here  that  I  want  you  to 
christen  for  me,"  he  explained. 

Full  of  interest  I  was  taken  out  to  inspect  the 
new  course,  and  I  confess  that  I  was  absolutely 
staggered  at  what  I  saw.  Never,  surely,  had 
fences  of  such  colossal  dimensions  been  seen  on  any 
steeplechase  course — much  less  on  any  schooling 
ground.  The  banks  were  pretty  near  as  high  as 
hunting  banks  and  yet  of  course  had  to  be  flown. 

"  I  want  you  to  put  Obadiah  round  the  course," 
Warren  Jackson  explained  airily.  "  The  horse  is 
short  of  work  and  a  gallop  will  do  him  good." 

I  wondered  a  little  why  a  horse  out  of  a  regular 
training  establishment  should  be  short  of  work 
and  also  why — if  he  were  short  of  work — one  of 
the  stable-lads  or  professional  riders  attached  to 
the  stable  did  not  put  him  round  the  new  course 

194 


BALLINCOLLIG 

instead  of  a  stranger  who  had  no  connection  with 
the  horse,  and  who  rode  no  less  than  12  stone 
7  lbs.  I  also  knew — having  ridden  Obadiah  at 
Cork  Park  the  week  before — that  he  was  a  perfect ' 
fencer  and  required  no  schooling,  so  that  the  real 
work  he  should  have  been  put  to  was  a  gallop  on 
the  flat  by  a  light  lad. 

All  this  flashed  through  my  brain  in  an  instant, 
as  did  also  a  realisation  of  the  fact  that  Warren 
Jackson's  instructions  to  me  were  little  short  of 
an  act  of  deliberate  murder.  Obadiah  was  the 
hardest  puller  in  Ireland,  and  was  in  addition  a 
"mad"  horse,  notoriously  dangerous  to  ride; 
and  I  believe  that  Warren  Jackson  had  only  put 
me  up  on  him  at  Cork  Park  because  he  could  get 
no  one  else  to  ride  him.  To  put  such  a  horse 
over  those  immense  fences,  which  were  quite 
double  the  height  of  the  revised  fences  at  Cork 
Park,  was,  as  I  say,  little  short  of  an  act  of 
murder.  I  was  not  without  a  suspicion  that  the 
whole  thing  had  been  carefully  planned  out  by 
Warren  Jackson  and  Peard  as  an  excellent  "  joke  " 
at  my  expense,  and  my  feelings,  as  I  stood  and 
watched  the  prancing  and  perspiring  Obadiah 
being  led  up  and  down  preparatory  to  his  gallop, 
were  decidedly  mixed.  However,  I  was  young 
and  foolish  in  those  days  and  would  far  sooner 
have  been  flattened  out  than  have  let  these 
humorists  see  that  I  was  afraid.  I  examined 
one  or  two  of  the  fences  and  noted  that  no  horse 
had  as  yet  been  round  the  course.  I  also  noted 
that — though  the  entire  Aghanesk  "  string  "  was 

195 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

exercising— there  was  no  disposition  on  the  part 
of  any  of  the  stable-lads  to  accompany  me  over 
the  new  fences.  That  honour  was  to  be  mine 
alone.  However,  it  was  too  late  now  to  withdraw. 
I  mounted,  and,  after  giving  the  horse  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  on  the  flat,  turned  him  on  to  the 
steeplechase  course.  Obadiah  was  a  very  gallant 
horse,  though,  as  I  have  said,  excitable  to  the 
point  of  madness,  and  he  had  no  idea  of  refusing 
anything.  Twice,  by  a  miracle,  I  got  him 
successfully  round  the  course  (its  circumference 
was  very  small)  and,  as  I  passed  the  group  of 
disappointed  onlookers,  I  shouted  out :  "  Will 
that  do?" 

"  Oh,  put  him  round  once  more,"  Warren 
Jackson  shouted  out  in  reply;  and  I  did,  or,  at 
least,  attempted  to  do  so.  This,  however,  was 
tempting  Providence  too  high.  At  one  of  the 
fences,  Obadiah,  who  had  an  immense  stride,  took 
off  about  twenty  feet  short,  breasted  the  fence  with 
terrific  force  and  turned  a  complete  somersault, 
mercifully  shooting  me  clear.  I  was  none  the 
worse  and  was  on  my  feet  again  in  a  moment, 
but  not  so  poor  Obadiah.  He  was  badly  injured, 
and,  though  they  managed  to  get  him  to  the 
stable,  he  never  recovered,  and,  shortly  after- 
wards, had  to  be  destroyed. 

The  whole  incident  was  regrettable,  and,  though 
it  recoiled  in  a  sense  on  to  the  heads  of  its 
originators,  it  was  many  a  day  before  I  ceased  to 
regret  the  death  of  the  unhappy  horse  who  was 
victimised.     The  truth  of  the  whole  matter  was, 

196 


BALLINCOLLIG 

I  believe,  that  the  new  banks  had  been  built  up 
by  unsupervised  workmen  who  modelled  them 
on  hunting  banks,  thinking  that  was  what  was 
wanted,  and  Peard  and  Warren  Jackson  thought 
it  would  be  a  pity  to  cut  them  down  before  they 
had  got  some  fun  out  of  them.  The  readiest 
form  of  fun  which  suggested  itself  to  them  was 
to  break  my  neck.  After  the  Obadiah  episode, 
the  banks  were  cut  down  to  the  usual  height. 

I  ran  Canary  shortly  afterwards  at  Tipperary 
Steeplechases.  On  the  first  day  there  were  four 
starters  in  my  race,  and  two  of  the  other  horses, 
ridden  respectively  by  Messrs.  Harty  and  Phelan, 
at  one  time  in  the  race  were  at  least  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  ahead  of  me.  Spurs,  knees,  voice  and 
whip  had  no  effect  whatever  on  little  Canary, 
who  lobbed  along  at  his  own  pace  without  taking 
the  slightest  notice  of  my  various  forms  of 
encouragement.  About  half  a  mile  from  home, 
however,  he  suddenly  lifted  his  head,  had  a  look 
round,  and  then  tucked  his  legs  under  him,  popped 
over  the  Lilliputian  fences  as  though  they  were  not 
there  and  set  off  in  pursuit  of  the  leaders.  He 
won  by  a  head. 

The  next  day  there  were  eleven  starters  in  my 
race  and  Canary  started  a  hot  favourite.  Peard 
and  Warren  Jackson  did  their  utmost  to  induce 
me  to  stand  down  in  favour  of  a  local  rider 
named  Norcott,  even  going  to  the  length  of 
assuring  me  that  they  knew  for  a  certain  fact 
that  two  of  the  jockeys  in  the  race  were  starting 
with  the  sole  object  of  knocking  me  over.     As, 

197 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

however,  I  had  only  bought  the  horse  for  the  fun 
of  riding  him,  I  refused  to  be  influenced  by  a 
sudden  soHcitude  for  my  personal  safety  which  I 
had  not  noticed  at  Aghanesk.  I  rode  most  of 
the  race  alongside  of  little  Johnnie  Beasley,  who 
good-naturedly  gave  me  instructions  throughout, 
and  told  me  exactly  when  to  go  through  the  ruck 
and  push  to  the  front.  This  time  I  won  by  a 
neck. 

Canary  was  a  wonderful  little  horse.  He  was 
the  laziest  little  beggar  that  ever  ran,  and  stub- 
bornly refused  to  win  any  race  by  more  than  a 
neck.  But  he  was  as  clever  as  a  man,  knew 
exactly  where  the  winning-post  was,  and  timed 
his  effort  better  than  ever  Fred  Archer  did. 

After  Tipperary,  Peard  and  Warren  Jackson 
persuaded  me  to  put  Canary  into  handicaps  and 
he  never  won  another  race.  He  broke  down 
within  a  year  of  the  Tipperary  meeting  and  I 
sold  him  at  Tattersall's  for  sixty  guineas.  Charlie 
Cunningham  had  a  look  at  him  with  a  view  to 
purchase,  but  decided  that  he  was  too  small  to 
be  of  any  use  to  him. 

The  mention  of  Charlie  Cunningham  brings 
back  pleasant  memories  of  one  of  the  finest  riders 
that  ever  crossed  a  horse,  and  of  one  of  the  best 
companions  that  ever  brought  gladness  to  the 
heart  of  man.  C.  J.  Cunningham  had  many 
virtues  and  many  attainments,  but  he  was  perhaps 
chiefly  remarkable  for  the  fact  that  he  was  by 
far  the  biggest  man  that  has  ever  got  into  the 
front  rank  of  steeplechase  riders.     He  was  by 

198 


BALLINCOLLIG 

nature  a  13-stone  man,  being  well  over  six  feet 
high  and  broad  in  proportion,  but,  by  a  most 
penitential  system  of  wasting,  he  so  reduced 
himself  that  he  was  able,  on  occasions,  to  ride  as 
low  as  11  stone  7  lbs.  His  success  at  Scottish 
and  North-country  meetings  was  unprecedented, 
and  on  a  real  bad  horse  he  was,  admittedly, 
without  a  rival.  It  is  chiefly,  however,  on 
account  of  his  personal  qualities  that  he  will  be 
remembered  and  regretted  in  the  North.  At  every 
race-meeting  in  Scotland,  and  indeed  at  many  a 
social  meeting  in  which  racing  had  no  part,  there 
was  a  sense  of  incompleteness  if  C.  J.  C.'s  cheery 
face  and  magnetic  personality  were  missing.  As 
a  narrator  of  Scotch  anecdotes  he  was  unequalled, 
and  his  fund  of  these  was  inexhaustible  and  suited 
to  all  tastes.  He  killed  himself  by  the  systematic 
wasting  of  a  big  muscular  frame  that  called  for 
twice  the  nourishment  it  got. 

In  a  more  tragic  way,  but  surely  from  the  same 
cause,  died  the  great  Fred  Archer.  Archer  was 
by  nature  a  10-stone  man,  and  throughout  the 
racing  season  he  kept  himself  within  the  limits  of 
8  stone  7  lbs.,  saddle  included.  No  constitution 
could  stand  such  a  strain  indefinitely,  and,  in  the 
end,  he  paid  the  penalty  exacted  by  outraged 
Nature. 

To  the  racing  men  of  his  day.  Archer  must 
always  stand  out  as  the  foremost  jockey  of  the 
century,  if  not  of  all  time.  It  is  always  a  difficult 
and  a  delicate  matter  to  compare  past  giants 
with  the  popular  favourites  of  the  moment.     The 

199 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

comparison  is,  in  fact,  impossible,  as  it  is  only 
in  direct  competition  that  pre-eminence  can  be 
established.  But  this  much  can  certainly  be 
said  :  that,  during  his  riding  career,  Archer  stood 
out  more  conspicuously  from  all  his  contem- 
poraries than  any  former  or  subsequent  jockey 
has  done,  not  only  by  virtue  of  the  fact  that  he 
always  headed  the  list  of  winners,  but  also  from 
his  striking  appearance  and  distinctive  style  of 
riding.  Archer  was  a  tall  man  and  always  rode 
very  long.  Nowadays  jockeys  present  a  more 
or  less  grotesque  appearance,  hunched  up  like 
monkeys  on  their  horses'  withers.  No  doubt  the 
modern  seat  is  justified  by  the  relief  afforded  to 
the  horse,  but  the  result  inevitably  is  that  all 
jockeys  have  the  same  seat  and  look  alike.  In 
Archer's  day  the  monkey-seat  was  not  yet  devised, 
and  there  was  considerable  latitude  as  to  the 
length  of  stirrup,  etc.  which  a  jockey  affected. 
Archer's  seat  was  unique  and  unmistakable.  Six 
inches  taller  than  any  other  jockey  of  his  day — 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Webb— he  rode  as 
long  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  ride  and  yet 
touch  the  stirrups.  His  great  length  of  limb 
made  him  no  less  conspicuous  from  all  the  other 
jockeys  of  his  day  than  did  his  attractive, 
cadaverous  face.  In  a  field  of  twenty  starters  his 
appearance  alone  would  instantly  have  arrested 
the  attention  of  any  foreigner  visiting  England 
for  the  first  time.  In  a  close  finish  his  methods 
were  equally  distinctive.  While  the  shorter 
jockeys  worked  their  little  legs  against  the  saddle- 
flaps.  Archer  would  seem  literally  to  wind  his 

200 


BALLINCOLLIG 

legs  round  his  horse  and  lift  him  to  the  front  by 
sheer  muscular  force  and  determination.  Now- 
adays such  methods  are  made  impossible  by  the 
modern  seat,  and  it  may  safely  be  said  that 
though  that  seat  may  be  advantageous  to  the 
horse,  it  cannot  but  be  most  disadvantageous  to 
the  jockey,  and  makes  it  a  physical  impossibility 
that  we  shall  ever  again  see  such  finishes  as  Fred 
Archer  used  to  furnish  us  with  when,  on  an 
apparently  beaten  horse,  he  would,  by  sheer 
muscular  effort,  force  his  way  to  the  front  through 
the  crowd  of  pigmies  opposed  to  him,  and  win  on 
the  post  by  a  short  head.  Such  exhibitions — and 
they  were  frequent — were  dramatic  in  the  extreme, 
and  made  Archer  the  idol  of  the  public  to  an 
extent  never  approached  by  any  other  jockey. 
It  used  to  be  said — with  some  degree  of  truth — 
that  no  horse,  however  bad,  was  ever  out  of  the 
reckoning  in  a  five-furlong  race  if  Archer  were  on 
its  back.  On  the  •  other  hand,  it  is  not  to  be 
denied  that  his  driving  power  at  the  finish  of  a 
race  was  so  tremendous  that  he  broke  the  spirit 
of  more  than  one  good  horse. 

The  most  remarkable  race  that  I  ever  saw 
ridden  was  the  race  for  the  Gold  Cup  at  Epsom 
between  Bend  Or  and  Robert  the  Devil  the  year 
following  Bend  Or's  Derby  victory,  when  the 
latter,  ridden  by  Archer,  had  won  by  a  head. 
Many  people  had  criticised  Rossiter's  riding  of 
Robert  the  Devil  on  that  occasion,  and  in  the 
Gold  Cup  next  year,  which  was  practically  a 
match  between  the  two  old  opponents,  Mr.  Brewer 
gave  the  mount  on  his  beautiful  horse  to  Tom 

201 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

Cannon.  Feeling  and  betting  ran  very  high  over 
the  race,  which  was  felt  to  be  a  duel  between  the 
Duke  and  the  bookmaker,  and,  in  a  lesser  degree, 
between  the  respective  classes  which  the  two 
principals  represented.  As  the  two  horses  came 
down  the  straight,  the  race  appeared  to  be  all 
over.  Cannon  was  sitting  perfectly  still  on  Robert 
the  Devil,  who  was  leading  by  a  length,  while 
Archer  was  working  at  Bend  Or  with  arms  and 
legs.  No  one,  200  yards  from  home,  would  have 
taken  10  to  1  about  Bend  Or's  chance.  Then, 
to  everyone's  amazement,  in  spite  of  Bend  Or's 
obvious  distress.  Archer  was  seen  to  be  gradually 
gaining  ground,  and,  when  Cannon  began  to  move 
in  his  saddle,  a  deafening  roar  of  excitement 
went  up  from  twenty  thousand  throats.  Past 
the  Grand  Stand  both  jockeys  were  riding  for  all 
they  were  worth,  the  horses  apparently  dead  level, 
and  it  was  not  till  the  numbers  went  up  that  we 
knew  that  Bend  Or  had  again  won  by  a  head. 
Never  have  I  seen  anything  approaching  the  recep- 
tion that  owner,  horse  and  jockey  got  as  the  Duke 
led  his  horse  in.  Staid  and  sober  men  went  mad 
and  flung  their  hats  in  the  air,  not  because  of 
their  winnings,  but  in  sheer  exuberance  of  spirits 
at  seeing  a  favourite  horse  and  rider  achieve 
the  apparently  impossible.  Of  course  Robert  the 
Devil  was  a  cur  and  Rossiter's  riding  in  the 
previous  Derby  was  vindicated,  but,  none  the  less, 
it  is  doubtful  whether  any  other  jockey  that  ever 
lived  could  have  squeezed  Bend  Or's  nose  in  front 
that  day. 

202 


CHAPTER  XIV 

POLITICS 

In  1885  my  father  died  and  my  whole  outlook 
in  life  was  changed.  A  general  election  was 
impending.  My  brothers  Claud,  George  and 
Frederic  were  already  pledged  to  constituencies 
in  England,  and,  at  the  time  of  my  father's 
death,  my  eldest  brother  was  the  selected  candidate 
for  North  Tyrone,  the  electoral  division  in  which 
Barons  Court  was  situated.  His  sudden  accession 
to  the  title  of  course  disqualified  him,  and,  at 
the  eleventh  hour,  I,  as  the  youngest  and  only 
unattached  member  of  the  family,  was  thrust, 
an  unwilling  victim,  into  his  place.  I  left  the 
army  and  devoted  all  my  energies  to  the  more  or 
less  uncongenial  work  of  electioneering. 

The  Nationalist  candidate  opposed  to  me  was 
John  Dillon,  at  that  time  one  of  the  most  prominent 
leaders  of  the  anti-British  movement  in  Ireland. 
John  Dillon,  it  must  be  owned,  was  not  a  genial 
foe.  I  did  my  best  to  stretch  out  to  him  the  hand 
of  good-fellowship,  but  he  did  not  respond,  and, 
after  a  time,  I  abandoned  the  effort. 

The  election  was  prolific  in  incidents,  generally 
of  an  amusing,  but  sometimes  of  a  distressing 
character.  One  never-to-be-forgotten  experience 
came  very  markedly  under  the  latter  category. 

203 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

It  is  the  privilege  of  the  candidate  at  Parlia- 
mentary elections  to  sit,  if  he  so  wishes,  in  any  of 
the  polling-booths  during  the  voting.  In  England, 
where  the  ballot  is  secret,  this  would  be  a  dreary 
and  profitless  occupation,  but  in  Ulster — with  all 
the  Roman  Catholics  under  orders  to  vote  illiterate 
— the  situation  offers  many  possibilities.  Only 
once  did  I  take  advantage  of  my  privilege. 
Happening  to  be  in  Newtown  Stewart  on  the 
morning  of  the  poll,  and  having  nothing  at  the 
moment  to  do,  I  strolled  into  the  polling  booth 
and  took  my  seat  by  the  Presiding  Officer.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  Presiding  Officer  sat  the  parish 
priest,  who  was  acting  as  Personating  Agent  for 
John  Dillon.  Presently  in  came  one  of  the 
gardeners  employed  at  Barons  Court,  by  name 
Carlin  and  a  Roman  Catholic. 

"  Can  you  read  or  write  ?  "  asked  the  Presiding 
Officer. 

"  I  cannot,  sir,"  stoutly  replied  Carlin,  who  was 
in  reality  an  excellent  scholar. 

"  Whom  do  you  vote  for  ?  "  asked  the  Presiding 
Officer,  in  continuance  of  the  recognised  formula. 

Then  began  a  very  painful  scene.  Poor  Carlin 
looked  first  at  me  and  then  at  the  priest.  On  the 
one  side  he  saw — as  he  thought — instant  dismissal 
from  his  employment,  and,  on  the  other  side,  all 
the  purgatorial  bans  which  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  can  call  down  on  the  heads  of  those  who 
go  contrary  to  its  orders.  He  scratched  his  head 
and  he  shuffled  his  feet,  and  he  looked  as  if  he 
wished  the  earth  would  open  and  swallow  him. 

204 


POLITICS 

The  perspiration  began  to  pour  off  his  face.     It 
was  really  a  most  distressing  spectacle. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Presiding  Officer  impatiently. 
"  Hurry  up.     I  can't  wait  all  day." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  with  a  look 
of  agony,  "  I  suppose  I  vote  for  his  lordship  over 
there,"  at  the  same  time  jerking  his  thumb  in 
my  direction.  That  was  enough  for  me.  My 
presence  had  obviously  gained  me  a  vote,  but  at 
too  high  a  price.  I  fled  the  spot,  and  never  again 
could  any  persuasion  induce  me  to  enter  a  polling- 
booth  while  voting  was  going  on. 

Outside,  in  the  street,  I  met  a  strong  supporter 
of  mine  of  the  name  of  David  Nelson. 

"  Well,  David,"  I  said,  "  how  are  things 
going?  " 

"  'Deed,  sir,  they're  going  right  well,"  was 
his  cheering  reply;  "I've  voted  twice  myself 
already." 

This  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
there  was  a  wealth  of  encouragement,  to  my  mind, 
in  the  word  "  already  "  ! 

A  little  further  down  the  street  I  noticed  a 
small  knot  of  my  supporters  in  animated  converse 
and  joined  the  group.  While  we  were  discussing 
our  chances,  a  farmer  named  Sproule  came 
striding  up  to  us,  evidently  pregnant  with  news. 

"  Did  you  hear  John  Porter  died  this  morning  ?  " 
he  inquired  of  the  company  generally. 

"  John  Porter  dead  !  "  cried  one  of  the  others. 
"  Well,  well,  that's  the  sad  affair." 

"  It's   a  queer  thing  the  man   couldn't  have 

205 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

waited  till  to-morrow,"  another  remarked  in  an 
injured  tone. 

"  He  voted  early,"  Sproule  went  on  to  explain; 
"  'twas  on  his  way  home  from  voting  that  he 
dropped  dead." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  the  last  speaker,  in  evident 
relief  of  mind,  "  a  man  can't  live  for  ever,  and 
there's  others  would  be  worse  missed  than  John 
Porter,  anyway." 

Life  and  death  on  that  day  were  considerations 
which  were  entirely  secondary  in  importance  to 
the  recording  of  a  vote  against  Home  Rule. 

Every  kind  of  device  was  resorted  to  in  order  to 
ensure  victory. 

At  one  outlying  polling-booth  on  the  very 
fringe  of  the  division,  the  Presiding  Officer  was  a 
well-known  Nationalist.  To  him  entered  two  of  my 
supporters  whom  I  will  call  Henderson  and  Baird. 

"  Well,  McCrossan,"  Baird  inquired,  "  how  are 
you  getting  on  here?  " 

"  Oh,  things  are  pretty  slow,"  McCrossan 
replied;  "there  have  only  been  two  voters  in 
during  the  last  hour." 

"  Come  out  and  have  a  drink,  then,"  Baird 
suggested. 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  said  McCrossan ; 
"  but  how  about  the  blessed  polling-booth  ?  I 
can't  well  leave  that." 

"  Oh,  Henderson  here  will  take  your  place  while 
you  are  away,"  said  Baird. 

"  All  right,"  said  McCrossan,  "  I'm  with  you," 
and  off  he  accordingly  went  with  Baird,  while 

206 


POLITICS 

Henderson  temporarily  officiated  as  Presiding 
Officer. 

After  a  time,  McCrossan  returned,  much 
refreshed,  and  resumed  his  duties. 

"Well?"  said  Baird,  turning  to  Henderson 
when  they  were  clear  of  the  polling-booth. 

"It's  all  right,"  Henderson  replied.  "Five 
Nationalists  came  in  while  you  were  away,  and  I 
handed  them  all  unstamped  voting  papers." 

I  did  not  quite  believe  this  story  when  it  was 
told  me  next  day,  but,  at  the  counting  of  the 
votes,  there,  sure  enough,  was  one  box  with  five 
unstamped  papers  in  it,  on  each  of  which  there 
was  a  cross  opposite  Dillon's  name.  They  were, 
of  course,  disallowed. 

It  might  at  first  sight  appear,  from  a  superficial 
study  of  the  above  fragments,  as  though  my 
election  had  been  secured  by  methods  which  are 
not  in  general  use  and  not  officially  recognised; 
but,  on  that  score,  I  have  no  qualms  of  conscience, 
for  it  is  quite  certain  that,  for  every  point  so 
scored  by  my  over-zealous  supporters,  the  other 
side  scored  at  least  two,  and  probably  far  more. 
In  craft  and  subtlety  they  were  streets  ahead  of 
us.  For  one  thing,  it  was  almost  impossible  for 
my  Committee  to  find  Personating  Agents  who 
could  swear  to  the  identity  of  the  voters  from  the 
exclusively  Nationalist  districts.  Men  commis- 
sioned to  make  themselves  familiar  with  these 
districts  and  their  residents  were  apt  to  find 
themselves  waylaid,  and  badly  stoned  or  beaten 
by  bands  of  politicians  who  viewed  their  enter- 

207 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

prise  unfavourably.  The  opportunities  for  per- 
sonation, therefore,  were  almost  unlimited.  Hugh 
O'Kane,  entitled  to  vote  by  his  position  on  the 
register,  might  have  been  dead  or  he  might  never 
have  existed  in  the  flesh,  but  it  was  an  absolute 
certainty  that,  on  the  election  day,  someone 
would  slouch  into  the  polling-booth  and  vote  in 
the  name  of  Hugh  O'Kane,  and  then  probably  go 
on  to  another  polling-booth  and  vote  in  another 
name.  There  is  no  doubt  that,  in  my  time,  there 
were  quite  a  number  of  electors  on  the  register 
who  had  no  existence  except  in  patriotic  imagina- 
tion. In  one  townland  alone,  in  my  constituency, 
there  were  no  less  than  thirty-eight  Barney 
Devines  on  the  register.  It  was,  as  I  say, 
impossible  to  establish  the  identity  of  all  these 
Barney  Devines,  whose  right  to  vote  the  Revising 
Barrister  had  allowed,  and  vote  they  all  did,  dead 
or  alive.  The  little  unauthorised  efforts  to  swell 
my  majority  made  by  well-wishers  on  my  side 
were  mere  pin-pricks  by  comparison  with  the 
organised  enterprise  on  the  other  side. 

Although  the  Nationalists  were  admittedly 
ahead  of  us  in  various  unrecognised  branches  of 
the  electioneering  art,  I  think  we  were  but  little 
behind  them  in  the  more  legitimate  fields  of 
enterprise,  as  the  following  incident,  which 
occurred  during  my  brother's  election,  should 
show. 

About  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  poll 
I  was  at  Barons  Court,  resting  after  a  very  hard 
day,  when  a  telegram  arrived  from  Drumquin 

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POLITICS 

urging  the  immediate  despatch  of  some  vehicle 
to  take  several  bed-ridden  voters  to  the  poll. 
That  was,  of  course,  long  before  the  days  of 
motor-cars.  All  the  Barons  Court  carriages  were 
out  except  an  antique  vehicle  known  as  the 
Clarence,  and  for  that  there  were  no  horses 
available.  My  sister-in-law,  the  Duchess,  and  I 
were  the  only  two  people  on  the  spot  at  the 
moment.  Everyone  else  was  away  either  voting 
or  helping  others  to  vote.  My  sister-in-law,  with 
her  usual  promptitude  and  energy,  grasped  the 
situation  in  a  moment.  We  hurried  up  together 
to  the  stables  and  there,  with  the  help  of  one  of 
the  garden  boys,  found  an  old  cart-mare  used  for 
bringing  heavy  luggage  from  the  station,  and 
a  four-year-old  thoroughbred  filly  which  was 
out  at  grass.  This  most  incongruous  pair  we 
harnessed  with  some  difficulty  to  the  Clarence, 
I  climbed  on  to  the  box  and  away  we  started  on 
our  six-mile  drive.  The  cart-mare,  whom  I  rib- 
roasted  most  unmercifully,  no  doubt  thought  the 
world  had  gone  mad,  while  the  filly  alternately 
galloped  and  kicked.  Our  progress  was  neces- 
sarily slow,  for  the  cart-mare's  best  pace  was 
under  five  miles  an  hour,  and  it  was  7.30  before 
Drumquin  was  reached.  Here  I  was  met  by  a 
small  but  enthusiastic  knot  of  supporters,  who 
swarmed  on  to  the  groaning  carriage  and  directed 
me  to  the  first  house  to  be  visited.  Apparently 
there  were  only  three  of  these  bed-ridden  voters 
to  be  carried  to  the  poll.  The  first  two  were 
safely  got  in  and  afterwards  left  to  recover  at 

P  209 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Dr.  Corry's  house  hard  by,  while  we  went  off  to 
fetch  in  the  one  and  last  remaining  voter.  In 
this  final  journey  the  front  of  the  Clarence 
was  thickly  covered  with  the  stalwart  forms  of  our 
friends,  who  clung  to  it  like  flies  and  supplemented 
my  anaemic  efforts  at  encouraging  the  horses  with 
tremendous  whacks  from  their  sticks.  The  filly, 
being  grass-fed  and  quite  raw,  was  by  now  as  dead- 
beat  as  the  cart-mare  and,  in  spite  of  these  very 
direct  appeals,  our  progress  was  slow.  On  reach- 
ing the  house  indicated,  the  old  man  on  whom 
Unionist  interest  was,  for  the  moment,  centred, 
was  found  to  be  very  frail  and  feeble,  but  dressed 
for  the  journey,  and  resolutely  determined  to 
register  his  vote  against  Home  Rule,  even  if  he 
died  the  next  minute.  My  companions,  however, 
assured  him  that  a  Unionist  victory  was  the  one 
tonic  needed  to  set  him  on  his  feet  again,  and,  on 
the  old  man  concurring  in  a  high  falsetto  pipe, 
they  bundled  him  into  the  carriage  and  off  we  set 
once  more  for  the  polling-booth.  By  this  time 
it  was  five  minutes  to  eight :  Drumquin  was  by 
far  the  most  Nationalist  district  in  the  constitu- 
ency, and  outside  the  polling-booth  a  hostile 
crowd  was  assembled  which  did  its  best  to  prevent 
our  old  man  from  getting  in  before  the  clock 
struck  eight.  Our  supporters,  however,  though 
few  in  numbers,  were  great  in  energy  and  zeal, 
and  literally  forced  a  passage  through  the  crowd, 
carrying  the  old  man  with  them.  Amidst 
tremendous  cheers  he  made  his  cross  and  was 
carried  out  again  to  the  carriage  with  its  two 

210 


POLITICS 

steaming  and  staggering  horses.  We  got  him  safely 
home  again,  but  I  regret  to  say  that  victory  did  not 
prove  the  effective  tonic  that  our  supporters  had 
anticipated,  for  he  remained  bed-ridden  till  his 
death. 

To  come  back  to  my  own  1885  election ;  when 
the  votes  were  finally  counted  I  had  a  majority 
of  453,  the  total  electorate  being  between  seven 
and  eight  thousand.  I  proffered  my  hand, 
according  to  custom,  to  the  defeated  candidate, 
but  Mr.  John  Dillon  refused  to  take  it,  and 
turned  bitterly  away  with  the  threat  that  he 
would  yet  wrest  the  seat  from  me.  On  the 
occasion  of  the  next  election,  however — six 
months  later — he  thought  better  of  his  resolve, 
and  the  Nationalists  put  up  a  Presbyterian  of  the 
name  of  Wylie  to  oppose  me,  the  idea  being  that 
he  would  be  able  to  detach  from  my  support 
a  certain  number  of  the  Radical  Presbyterian 
farmers.  Under  the  old  political  divisions  of 
Liberal  and  Conservative,  these  Presbyterians 
had  been  pronounced  and,  in  many  cases,  even 
bitter  Radicals,  but  Mr.  Gladstone's  Home  Rule 
Bill  had — ^very  much  against  the  grain — thrust 
them  into  alliance  with  their  old  enemies  the 
Conservatives  against  the  common  danger  of 
Home  Rule.  Mr.  Wylie  was  put  up  with  the 
idea  of  reviving  these  ancient  party  animosities, 
and,  in  particular,  of  stirring  up  the  old  landlord 
versus  tenant  feeling.  The  ruse  completely  failed. 
Greatly  as  these  sturdy  Radicals  may  have 
disliked   the   idea   of  voting  for   a   Tory,    they 

211 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

disliked  even  more  the  idea  of  a  Home  Rule 
Parliament,  and  Mr.  Wylie  was  defeated  by  some 
360  votes.  The  announcement  of  the  poll  was 
quickly  followed  by  the  news  of  my  three  brothers' 
return  in  different  parts  of  the  country,  and  there 
were  great  rejoicings  at  Barons  Court  that  night. 
During  the  two  Sessions  which  followed  on  these 
elections,  there  were  no  less  than  four  of  us 
Hamilton  brothers  in  the  House  of  Commons  and 
a  fifth  in  the  House  of  Lords — a  legislative  record 
which  I  should  imagine  few  families  had  ever 
equalled. 

Before  the  next  election  I  had  married,  which 
made  it  necessary  for  me  to  retire  from  Parlia- 
ment, and  I  did  not  stand  again.  My  brother 
Freddie,  who  had  so  far  represented  one  of  the 
Manchester  divisions,  undertook  to  fill  my  place. 
His  fight  was  a  harder  one  than  either  of  mine 
had  been,  for,  in  the  meanwhile,  the  Nationalists 
had  considerably  strengthened  their  position  at 
the  Revision  Sessions.  In  spite  of  this,  however, 
he  managed  to  defeat  his  antagonist,  Mr.  Dogherty 
by  47  votes.  I  shall  never  forget  the  desperate 
strain  on  our  nerves  during  the  counting  of  the 
votes  on  that  occasion.  When  a  box  from  a 
Nationalist  district  was  opened,  the  ticks  opposite 
Dogherty's  name  would  surge  ahead  with  a  rush 
which  it  seemed  as  though  nothing  could  check  or 
overtake.  Then  a  box  from  a  Unionist  district 
would  come  on  the  table  and  we  breathed  again  as 
Mr.  Dogherty's  marks  were  gradually  overhauled. 

When  it  was  all  over  and  Colonel  King-Edwardes 

212 


POLITICS 

had  announced  the  result  from  the  balcony  of  the 
Town  Hall,  we  all  repaired  in  great  glee  to  Sim's 
Hotel,  where,  on  the  first  floor,  a  table  had 
been  prepared  on  which  stood  twelve  bottles  of 
champagne  with  the  corks  invitingly  drawn.  Mr. 
Dogherty  had  a  more  or  less  similar  table  pre- 
pared on  the  floor  above,  for — ^win  or  lose — the 
rule  in  Ireland  is  to  celebrate  the  event  in  the 
wine  that  cheereth,  or,  at  any  rate,  in  the  whisky 
that  cheereth. 

As  we  stood  outside  the  door  of  our  room, 
waiting  for  the  expected  guests  to  assemble. 
Father  McConologue,  Mr.  Dogherty's  election 
agent,  mounted  the  stairs  on  his  way  to  the 
refreshment  provided  on  the  upper  floor.  As  he 
passed  us,  his  eye  rested  approvingly  on  the 
spectacle  of  the  twelve  gold-necked  bottles  stand- 
ing in  hospitable  array  on  the  table  within.  Now 
Father  McConologue  was  the  bitterest  Nationalist 
in  all  North  Tyrone.  He  would  invariably  cross 
himself  and  spit  when  he  passed  any  member  of 
my  family  on  the  road,  and  black  scowls  were  the 
only  greeting  any  of  us  had  ever  been  able  to 
extract  from  him.  My  brother,  however,  in  the 
bonhomie  inspired  by  a  victory  which,  half  an 
hour  earlier,  had  seemed  out  of  reach,  called  out 
to  him  as  he  passed  : 

"  Won't  you  join  us  in  a  glass.  Father 
McConologue?  " 

To  our  unbounded  amazement,  the  priest  first 
paused  and  then— after  a  moment's  hesitation- 
replied  : 

213 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do." 

It  is  possible  that  Mr.  Dogherty's  table  above 
may  have  boasted  nothing  more  sparkling  than 
the  wares  of  Kinahan  or  John  Jamieson,  and  that 
the  good  priest  knew  that  this  was  so,  but — be 
that  as  it  may — he  readily  joined  us,  the  doors 
were  closed  and  the  juice  of  the  grape  passed  with 
astonishing  rapidity  from  the  gold-necked  bottles 
into  glasses  and  thence  to  its  time-honoured 
destination.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  spent 
in  this  pleasant  relaxation.  Father  McConologue 
rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and,  in  solemn  but  emotional 
tones,  announced  his  intention  of  delivering 
himself  of  a  speech.  Loud  applause  greeted  this 
announcement,  for  the  twelve  bottles  were  by 
now  empty,  and  ten  people  only  sat  round  the 
board. 

The  reverend  gentleman's  address  consisted 
mainly  of  a  passionate  panegyric  of  the  Hamilton 
family,  and  concluded  with  the  following  startling 
announcement,  coming,  as  it  did,  from  Mr. 
Dogherty's  election  agent : 

"  And  I  declare  to  you,  gentlemen,  that  there's 
no  man  on  God's  earth  that  I'd  so  soon  see 
representing  North  Tyrone  as  Lord  Frederic 
Hamilton."  Great  indeed  are  the  powers  of 
Moet  and  Chandon ! 

At  that  time  I  was  something  of  an  idealist  and 
was  much  given  to  tilting  at  social  and  political 
windmills,  and  one  of  the  windmills  against 
whose  sails  I  was  at  the  moment  measuring  my 
strength  was  the  blood-sucking  system  of  usury 

214 


POLITICS 

known  in  Ireland  as  the  Gombeen  system.  This 
system  did  not  operate  to  any  appreciable  extent 
in  Tyrone  itself,  but  among  the  ignorant  peasantry 
of  West  Donegal  it  was  reported  to  be  rampant, 
and  to  West  Donegal  I  accordingly  turned  my 
steps  with  a  view  to  acquiring  first-hand  informa- 
tion on  the  spot.  For  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated, 
it  may  be  explained  that  the  Gombeen  man  is 
the  village  moneylender  who  makes  advances 
at  exorbitant  rates  to  smallholders  and  shop- 
keepers, and  finally  gets  the  entire  country-side 
body  and  soul  into  his  clutches. 

After  some  thought  I  determined  to  make  the 
village  of  Dungloe,  in  West  Donegal,  my  head- 
quarters, and  I  accordingly  drove  the  intervening 
sixty  miles  or  so  on  an  outside  car  and  established 
myself  at  the  house  of  one  McSweeney,  a  publican. 
My  first  move,  as  was  not  unnatural,  was  to  seek 
out  Father  X.,  the  parish  priest  of  the  place,  with 
a  view  to  gleaning  from  him  some  particulars 
of  the  worst  known  cases  of  Gombeen  usury  in 
his  parish.  Father  X.  was  entirely  cordial,  but 
showed  little  enthusiasm  over  the  special  object 
of  my  mission.  He  told  me  a  number  of  excellent 
stories,  but  always  sidled  adroitly  off  the  main 
track  which  led  to  the  Gombeen  system  and  its 
local  adherents. 

Before  I  left — very  little  wiser  than  I  had  come 
— he  invited  me  to  dine  with  him  on  the  following 
night,  and  I  gladly  accepted  his  offer,  hoping  that, 
under  the  expanding  influence  of  dinner,  he  would 
become  more   communicative.     In   a   sense   my 

215 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

hopes  were  realised,  for,  after  the  whisky  had 
been  succeeded  by  port,  the  good  priest — though 
still  disappointingly  shy  of  the  Gombeen  question 
— made  some  amends  by  launching  out  into  a 
furious  tirade  against  the  Land  League  and  all 
its  ways  and  apostles.  As  Father  X.  was  the 
President  of  the  local  Land  League,  this  outburst 
was  not  without  its  interest. 

The  dinner  was  a  great  success,  especially  at 
first,  when  conversation  was  brisk  and  reciprocal. 
The  port,  however,  was  good,  and  disappeared 
with  a  rapidity  which  soon  became  responsible 
for  long  pauses  in  the  conversation.  Lower  and 
lower  on  his  chest  sank  the  good  priest's  head, 
till  finally,  with  a  flop,  he  himself  disappeared 
bodily  under  the  table  and  there  remained.  In 
serious  alarm  I  rang  the  bell  to  summon  the  maid. 

"  I  am  afraid  Father  X.  is  not  very  well,"  I 
remarked,  on  her  arrival. 

"  Och  !  never  heed  him,"  she  replied,  with  the 
utmost  unconcern.  "  He'll  be  the  well  man  in 
time  for  morning  mass.  Get  you  home  now." 
So,  much  relieved  in  mind  and  on  excellent  terms 
with  myself,  I  dismissed  my  host's  sudden  indis- 
position from  my  mind  and  trudged  back  through 
the  night  to  McSweeney's  hotel. 

My  first  duty  obviously  was  to  return  Father 
X.'s  hospitality,  but  the  matter  presented  some 
little  difficulty,  for  not  a  drop  of  port  was  to  be 
had  for  love  or  money  in  the  village  of  Dungloe. 
Finally,  after  all  my  local  inquiries  had  failed,  I 
was  forced  to  send  off  a  special  car  to  Gweedore, 

216 


POLITICS 

sixteen  miles  distant,  with  instructions  to  bring 
back  two  bottles  of  best  port  from  the  hotel, 
where,  to  my  knowledge,  the  late  Lord  George 
Hill  had  laid  down  a  cellar  of  very  excellent  wines 
in  the  hopes  of  bringing  monied  tourists  into  the 
country. 

In  due  course  the  car  returned  with  its  two 
bottles,  and  my  invitation  went  out  to  Father  X. 
and  was  promptly  and  gratefully  accepted.  I 
carefully  drew  the  cork  of  one  of  the  bottles  and 
instructed  Biddy,  the  maid,  to  fill  our  glasses 
the  moment  the  soup  had  been  served  and  before 
she  handed  round  the  whisky.  The  little  maid 
carried  out  my  instructions  to  the  letter,  but,  to 
my  utter  stupefaction,  as  she  approached  the 
priest,  bottle  in  hand,  he  waved  her  away  with 
the  offended  dignity  of  the  confirmed  abstainer. 

"  Take  it  away,  Biddy,"  he  exclaimed  with  a 
look  of  repugnance,  "  take  it  away.  You  should 
surely  know  that  I  never  taste." 

Having  left  my  guest  three  nights  before 
literally  under  the  table,  I  could  only  sit  and  stare 
in  blank  amazement.  Presently  Biddy  left  the 
room,  whereupon  the  priest  gave  a  hurried  and 
whispered  explanation. 

"  You  see,  I'm  President  of  the  local  Temperance 
Society,"  he  told  me,  "  and  it  would  never  do  to 
let  the  girl  see  me  drink-taking.  But  I  see  you've 
two  bottles  there  on  the  table,  and  by  your  good 
leave  I'll  just  slip  the  one  with  the  cork  in  it 
into  my  pocket  and  take  it  home  with  me." 
Which  he  did. 

217 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

It  is  impossible  to  leave  the  subject  of  Donegal 
and  its  Roman  Catholic  clerics  without  some 
reference  to  the  famous  Father  McFadden  of 
Gweedore.  After  leaving  Dungloe,  I  spent  some 
three  weeks  at  Gweedore,  and,  during  my  stay- 
there,  I  heard  innumerable  anecdotes  concerning 
the  exploits  and  peculiarities  of  the  parish  priest. 
My  curiosity  was  aroused  and  I  determined,  at 
the  risk  of  an  unfriendly  welcome — for  Father 
McFadden  was  reputed  a  very  bitter  Nationalist — 
to  pay  the  priest  a  call.  Accordingly  I  set  out 
one  afternoon  to  cover  the  two  miles  of  road  which 
lay  between  the  hotel  and  the  priest's  house. 
A  neat  maid  responded  to  my  ring,  and,  without 
inquiring  my  name,  ushered  me  straight  into  the 
priest's  sitting-room — a  comfortable  and  luxurious 
room,  the  walls  of  which  were  lined  with  gaily- 
bound  books  of  various  descriptions.  These 
books  I  examined  with  interest  later  on,  but,  on 
my  first  entry,  I  had  eyes  for  nothing  beyond  the 
extraordinary  figure  with  which  I  was  confronted. 
I  had  come,  as  already  explained,  to  call  on  the 
parish  priest,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  have 
made  a  mistake  and  called  on  the  M.F.H.  instead, 
for  the  figure  that  rose  to  greet  me  was  in  full 
hunting  costume,  top-boots,  leathers,  scarlet 
coat  and  all.  As  there  was,  to  my  certain 
knowledge,  no  pack  of  foxhounds  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  Gweedore,  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
eyes,  and  felt  that  I  must  either  be  mad  or  in  a 
dream.  Father  McFadden,  however — for  it  was 
indeed  he — quickly  reassured  me. 

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POLITICS 

"  You'll  be  surprised  to  see  me  like  this,"  he 
remarked  after  shaking  me  warmly  by  the  hand, 
"  but  the  fact  is  I  have  just  been  giving  a  sitting 
to  an  artist  who  is  painting  my  portrait.  Come 
now  till  I  show  you." 

He  led  me  to  an  adjoining  room,  and  there  with 
pride  showed  me  a  life-sized  portrait  of  himself 
in  the  costume  in  which  he  then  stood,  with  the 
addition  of  a  tall  hat  and  a  hunting  crop.  I 
admired  the  picture  as  much  as  I  was  able  and 
then  timidly  inquired  what  pack  of  hounds  he 
usually  patronised. 

"Hounds!  is  it?"  he  exclaimed.  "Faith! 
I've  never  crossed  a  horse's  back  in  my  life,  but 
I  just  had  the  conceit  to  be  painted  that  way. 
It's  a  pleasant  change  from  the  black,  anyway." 

We  returned  to  the  library,  where,  after  a 
time,  conversation  turned  to  the  cause  of  my  long 
stay  at  that  inclement  season  of  the  year  (it 
was  mid-winter)  in  such  a  wild  district  as  West 
Donegal.  I  explained  that  I  was  collecting 
material  for  a  crusade  against  the  Gombeen  men, 
and  asked  if  he  were  in  sympathy  with  my 
endeavour.  He  replied  that  he  was,  called  the 
Gombeen  men  "  dirty  blackguards,"  and  wished 
me  every  luck,  but — as  in  the  case  of  Father  X. — 
I  found  the  conversation  adroitly  turned  aside 
the  moment  I  began  to  press  for  facts.  In  spite 
of  this  disappointing  reticence  on  the  one  subject 
as  to  which  I  particularly  desired  information, 
I  found  Father  McFadden  excellent  company,  and 
spent   a   very   pleasant   hour   with   him   before 

219 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

returning  to  my  hotel.  Needless  to  say,  he  knew 
all  about  my  stay  in  the  district  and,  as  he  told 
me,  had  been  expecting,  and  even  hoping  for  a 
visit. 

The  peasantry  of  West  Donegal  are  to  a  certain 
extent  a  race  apart.  They  are  reputed  to  be  the 
purest  Irish  in  the  island,  unalloyed  by  any 
admixture  of  immigrant  blood. 

There  is  good  reason  to  suppose  that  the  popular 
belief  that  West  Donegal — in  common  with  West 
Galway  and  Sligo — had  a  strong  admixture  of 
Spanish  blood  introduced  into  it  by  survivors 
from  the  Armada,  is  a  fallacy.  It  is  very  doubtful 
whether  there  were  any  survivors  in  Ireland  from 
the  wreck  of  the  great  fleet.  The  evidence  of  the 
State  Papers  of  the  day  goes  to  show  that  the 
natives  killed  all  the  survivors  whom  they  found, 
and  that  the  Government  executed  all  those  who 
escaped  the  natives.  One  man,  named  Loughlin 
McCabe,  boasted  that  he  himself  had  killed  eighty 
Spaniards  with  a  hatchet  as  they  landed  on  the 
Donegal  rocks  from  one  of  the  wrecks.  Fitz- 
william,  who  was  Deputy  at  the  time  of  the 
Armada,  made  a  diligent  search  of  the  Connaught 
and  Ulster  coasts  with  a  large  armed  force,  but 
only  succeeded  in  finding  two  Spanish  and  five 
Dutch  boys,  all  of  whom  he  dutifully  hanged. 
Two  brothers  of  the  name  of  Hoveden,  after  a 
long  search,  collected  a  handful  of  survivors  in 
Donegal,  and  sent  them  up  to  Dublin,  where  they 
were  hanged.    As  a  matter  of  fact  the  Spanish 

220 


POLITICS 

type,  which  is  supposed  to  be  an  inheritance  from 
the  Armada,  is  very  rare  in  Ireland.  During 
my  month's  stay  in  West  Donegal  I  hardly  saw 
one  who  could  truly  be  said  to  suggest  a  Spanish 
origin. 

The  people  of  the  coast  are  a  quiet,  inoffensive 
race — poor  physically  and  very  poor  in  this 
world's  goods.  This  latter  is  to  a  certain  extent 
their  own  fault,  for,  at  their  very  door,  lies  an 
inexhaustible  supply  of  food,  had  they  only  the 
enterprise  to  grasp  it.  There  is  no  better  fishing- 
ground  in  the  kingdom  than  off  the  Donegal 
coast,  but  it  is  impossible  to  induce  the  natives 
to  tempt  the  waves  in  pursuit  of  it.  The  late 
Mr.  E.  T.  Herdman,  of  Sion  Mills,  most  generously 
furnished  two  of  his  proteges  at  Dungloe  with  a 
complete  fishing  outfit — boats,  sails,  nets  and  all. 
The  men,  who  had  pleaded  their  inability  to  equip 
themselves  as  their  excuse  for  not  fishing,  were 
profuse  in  thanks,  but  when  Mr.  Herdman  returned 
for  his  annual  trout  fishing  a  year  later,  he  found 
that  neither  of  the  boats  had  so  much  as  been  in 
the  water,  the  excuse  this  time  being  that  the 
men  had  no  one  to  teach  them  how  to  sail  a  boat. 
For  all  I  know  to  the  contrary,  those  two  boats 
may  still  be  lying  high  and  dry  on  the  shore. 


221 


CHAPTER  XV 

PARLIAMENT 

The  House  of  Commons,  for  the  entry  into 
which  I  had  put  myself  to  much  inconvenience 
and  a  not  inconsiderable  expense,  proved  a 
disappointment  to  my  expectations.  It  was  not 
what  I  had  pictured  it.  Like  many  another 
aspiring  politician,  I  had  entered  the  Parlia- 
mentary arena  full  of  lofty  schemes  for  the 
regeneration  of  mankind.  I  had  pictured  the 
House  of  Commons  as  being  full  of  noble,  high- 
souled  patriots  whose  lives  were  devoted  to  the 
interests  of  their  country  and  their  fellow-men. 
I  found  it  full  of  scramblers  for  salaried  offices 
and  mushroom  titles.  I  myself  was  a  mere 
brick  in  a  buttress  whose  sole  purpose  was  to 
maintain  a  number  of  paid  officials  in  their  billets. 
Outside  of  that  one  sphere  of  usefulness,  I  had 
no  value  and — in  the  party-political  sense — ^no 
existence.  Nobody  wanted  me  except  as  a 
voter  in  divisions.  If  I  voted  regularly,  and  as 
I  was  told,  for  a  certain  number  of  years,  and 
had  a  corresponding  number  of  good  marks 
against  my  name,  then  I  myself  (quite  irrespective 
of  merit)  might  hope  to  find  myself  on  one  of  the 
lower  rungs  of  the  ladder  of  those  who  are  paid. 
The  demeanour  of  the  two  front  benches  struck 

222 


PARLIAMENT 

me  as  unworthy.  Of  generosity,  of  desire  to 
facilitate  the  government  of  the  country  or 
to  further  the  interests  of  the  empire  I  could 
see  little  trace.  No  proposed  reform,  however 
desirable,  could  rouse  a  spark  of  interest,  unless 
there  were  votes  in  it.  On  the  other  hand, 
childish  recrimination  and  insincere  criticism  of 
every  measure  emanating  from  the  other  side 
were  in  ceaseless  evidence.  It  all  seemed  petty 
and,  in  a  sense,  sordid.  For,  behind  all  this 
wordy  warfare,  even  I — inexperienced  as  I  was — 
could  detect  plainly  enough  the  hungry  greed  of 
the  Opposition  for  the  fat  portfolios  facing  them, 
and  the  avaricious  tightening  of  the  Government 
grasp  on  those  same  portfolios  the  moment  their 
possession  was  threatened. 

There  were  other  phases,  too,  of  Parliamentary 
life  that  I  quickly  realised  were  outside  my 
mental  grasp.  When  I  saw  Members  of  Parlia- 
ment, who  called  themselves  Englishmen,  system- 
atically taking  the  side  of  their  country's 
enemies,  and  yet  being  saluted  by  policemen  and 
going  about  the  streets  with  whole  skins,  I  felt 
that  I  was  in  a  world  for  which  I  was  not  fitted. 

For  a  time  the  novelty  of  the  situation  made 
some  amends  for  my  disillusionment.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone was  a  source  of  ceaseless  delight.  His 
splendid  presence,  his  arresting  voice  with  the 
curious  burr  in  it,  his  magnificent  Homeric 
periods,  which  sounded  so  superb  and  which 
meant  so  little,  fascinated  me  from  first  to  last. 
His   courtliness  to  foe  no  less  than  friend  was 

223 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

even  more  captivating  than  his  oratory.  While 
I  was  stumbUng  and  halting  through  my  absurd 
maiden  speech,  Mr.  Gladstone  sat  throughout 
with  his  hand  to  his  ear  in  an  attitude  of  reverent 
attention.  My  own  front  bench  talked  loudly 
among  themselves  the  whole  while — a  direct 
snub  which  quickly  reduced  me  to  imbecile 
incoherence.  It  was  easy  to  understand,  even 
from  a  little  incident  such  as  this,  the  adoration 
which  the  Liberal  leader  inspired  in  the  minds  of 
his  followers. 

The  best  speaker  of  my  day  was  unquestionably 
Mr.  Chamberlain.  Gladstone  was  magnificent 
and  sonorous,  but  his  utterances  were  cryptic 
and  left  no  sense  of  completeness.  Chamberlain, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  clearness  itself.  He  never 
spoke  for  more  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour — 
admirable  rule — there  was  no  superfluous  verbiage, 
and  every  sentence  he  uttered  was  alive  with 
meaning.  His  voice  was  very  clear  and  pene- 
trating, and  he  was  always  the  personification  of 
coolness,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  violent  vitupera- 
tion to  which  his  candid  handling  of  cant  and 
humbug  exposed  him. 

The  Irish  had  a  good  speaker  of  the  florid, 
theatrical  type  in  Mr.  Sexton,  but  he  always 
seemed  to  speak  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek, 
and  so  failed  to  carry  conviction.  Engrossing 
speeches,  however,  formed  very  occasional  relief- 
spots  in  a  dreary  sea  of  prosy  and  pompous  talk, 
and,  at  the  end  of  six  years,  I  withdrew  moodily 
and  without  regret  from  the  field  of  party  politics. 

224 


CHAPTER  XVI 

KLONDYKE 

Most  people  will  remember  the  feverish  rush 
of  gold-seekers  to  Klondyke  in  1897  and  '98,  the 
terrible  tragedies  of  the  Chilkoot  and  White 
Passes,  and  the  lesser  tragedies  of  the  White 
Horse  Rapids.  These  tragedies  were,  alas  !  on 
an  infinitely  greater  scale  than  the  civilised  world 
ever  knew  of.  Unknown  men  swarmed  up  to 
try  their  fortunes  in  the  new  fields,  sacrificing 
everything  to  the  one  mad  desire  to  out-distance 
competitors  and  have  the  first  pick  of  the  golden 
claims  which  were  waiting  to  be  staked  out. 
Hundreds  found  nameless  graves  in  the  snow, 
were  trampled  on  by  those  who  followed,  and 
disappeared  from  the  world  unmourned  and,  in 
most  cases,  unidentified.  At  first  the  Chilkoot 
and  White  Passes  shared  the  tragedies  impartially. 
Later  on  the  Chilkoot  Pass  was  abandoned,  and 
Skagway  and  the  White  Pass  were  the  gates  by 
which  all  who  entered  the  Klondyke  came  and 
went. 

The  earlier  pioneers  had  brought  horses  with 
them  in  hopes  of  out-distancing  their  rivals.  It 
was  quickly  realised  that  the  White  Pass  w^as 
impracticable  for  horses.  They  fell  through  the 
snow  into  bog-holes  and  could  not  be  extricated. 
There  were  said  to  be  1500  dead  and  dying  horses 

Q  225 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

lining  the  short  trail  from  Skagway  to  the  summit 
of  the  White  Pass  at  one  time  during  the  height 
of  the  rush.  Dogs  succeeded  horses  for  the  few 
who  could  afford  them,  but  the  majority  tramped 
over  the  snow  in  single  file,  with  set  faces  and 
with  their  packs  on  their  backs,  in  many  cases 
till  they  dropped.  On  the  flat  stretches,  when  the 
wind  was  favourable,  sails  were  attached  to 
the  sleighs,  to  lessen  the  toil  of  haulage.  When 
the  Yukon  River  was  reached,  rough  boats  and 
rafts  were  put  together  and  the  adventurers 
dropped  down  the  river  to  Dawson.  In  the 
White  Horse  Rapids,  the  hastily-constructed 
boats  in  many  cases  failed  to  bear  the  strain  of 
the  tumultuous  waters,  and  many  more  name- 
less and  friendless  men  dropped  out  of  the 
competition. 

In  July  1899  I  was  asked  by  a  small  but 
enterprising  syndicate,  on  the  search  for  auri- 
ferous properties,  to  make  the  journey  to  Atlin,  in 
the  Yukon,  to  inspect  and,  if  necessary,  purchase 
a  property,  as  to  the  possibilities  of  which  the 
most  exhilarating  reports  had  been  brought  to 
London.  The  enterprise  was  one  which  appealed 
to  my  sense  of  adventure  and  I  willingly  accepted 
the  offer.  Twenty  thousand  pounds,  the  purchase 
price  demanded  for  the  property,  was  lodged  to 
my  credit  in  the  Bank  of  Montreal  at  Vancouver, 
and  off  I  set  in  company  with  my  friend  Fred 
Haggard,  who  was  also  attracted  to  the  far 
North- West  by  the  tales  of  fabulous  riches  which 
were  afloat. 

226 


KLONDYKE 

On  arrival  at  Vancouver  we  took  ship  for 
Skagway  in  the  old  Humboldt^  in  company  with 
a  rough  and  cosmopolitan  crowd  all  bound  on 
similar  errands  to  our  own.  In  close  quarters 
with  the  very  mixed  company  in  which  I  found 
myself,  I  experienced  some  little  uneasiness  from 
the  fact  that  I  was  carrying  £2000  in  notes  on 
my  person,  this  being  the  deposit  required  to 
secure  an  option  on  the  mine,  in  the  purchase 
of  which,  we  were  assured,  half  the  plutocrats  in 
Europe  were  sending  up  their  representatives  to 
forestall  us. 

The  only  excitement  during  the  voyage  was 
furnished  by  the  astonishing  foolhardiness  of 
our  navigators.  The  British  Columbian  coast  is 
generally  fog-bound  during  the  late  summer 
months.  A  considerable  part  of  the  thousand- 
miles  sail  from  Vancouver  to  Skagway  is  through 
ridiculously  narrow  channels  between  rocky 
islands  and  the  mainland.  In  threading  these 
narrows,  which  we  did  at  full  speed,  we  had  to 
rely  for  our  whereabouts  solely  on  the  time  which 
it  took  for  the  echo  of  our  siren  to  come  back  to 
us  from  the  shore.  As,  in  places,  the  channel  was 
not  more  than  200  yards  wide,  this  method  of 
steering  through  a  fog,  coupled  with  our  unabated 
speed,  seemed  to  me  little  short  of  insane.  I 
made  observations  to  this  effect  to  the  skipper 
(an  American),  but  he  informed  me  laconically 
that,  as  a  quick  arrival  at  their  destination  was 
the  first  consideration  with  all  who  were  bound 
for   Klondyke,    and    as    they    were   running   in 

227 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

competition  with  another  line  of  steamers,  con- 
siderations of  safety  which  ruled  elsewhere  had 
to  be  put  aside.  He  reassured  me,  to  some 
extent,  by  the  information  that,  so  far,  there 
had  been  no  accidents.  Further  north,  in  the 
more  open  waters,  the  same  mad  policy  of  full 
steam  ahead,  regardless  of  risks,  was  maintained. 
The  sea  off  the  entrance  to  the  Lynn  "  Canal," 
as  it  is  called,  is  thickly  dotted  with  ice-floes 
thrown  off  by  the  Muir  Glacier  and  other  minor 
contributaries,  and  our  progress  was  punctuated 
by  continual  shocks  as  our  bow  came  in  contact 
with  these  floes.  An  ice-floe,  of  course,  is  but  a 
baby  iceberg  and  some  of  these  shocks  were  very 
severe.  On  our  return  journey,  on  the  Princess 
of  Seattle^  we  were  all  brought  out  of  our  bunks 
one  night  by  a  terrific  shock  which  brought  the 
boat  to  a  standstill,  quivering  from  stem  to 
stern  like  a  leaf,  but  no  disaster  followed  and, 
after  a  time,  we  continued  our  precarious  course. 

Next  morning  I  made  inquiries  from  the  ship's 
officers.  "  We  struck  a  somewhat  larger  floe 
than  usual,"  they  explained,  "  but  luckily  it 
split."  I  asked  what  would  have  happened  if  it 
had  not  split,  and  was  answered  by  an  eloquent 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

Immunity  from  accident  makes  fools  of  us  all. 
At  the  time  I  travelled  there  had  been  no  accidents 
on  the  Skagway  route.  Within  three  years 
from  the  date  of  my  journey,  three  ships  went  to 
the  bottom — in  two  cases  with  all  on  board  and 
in  the  third  case  with  great  loss  of  life.     One, 

228 


KLONDYKE 

while  steering  by  the  siren,  struck  the  rocks  in  a 
fog  in  one  of  the  narrow  channels.  Another 
presumably  struck  an  ice-floe  which  did  not  split, 
for  it  disappeared  off  the  mouth  of  the  Lynn 
Canal  and  there  were  no  survivors  to  tell  the 
world  what  had  happened.  Lastly,  the  gallant 
little  Princess  of  Seattle,  with  her  staff  of  bright 
and  breezy  American  officers,  turned  turtle  in 
Queen  Charlotte's  Sound  and  sank  with  all  on 
board.  She  was  really  a  river  steamer,  with  far 
too  much  top-dressing  for  the  open  sea.  The 
sea-voyage  to  Skagway,  as  already  explained,  is 
for  the  greater  part  in  dead-calm  waters  between 
the  mainland  and  the  myriad  islands  that  dot 
the  coast,  but  Queen  Charlotte's  Sound  is  open 
sea,  for  which,  under  bad  conditions,  the  Princess 
of  Seattle  was  quite  unfitted.  However,  she  was 
fast,  and,  as  that  outweighed  all  other  considera- 
tions with  men  who  were  racing  one  another  for 
gold.  Queen  Charlotte's  Sound  was  chanced; 
till,  one  day,  a  westerly  gale  caught  the  ship 
broadside  on  when  she  was  half-way  across  the 
Sound  and  blew  her  over  like  a  flower-pot. 

No  such  disaster,  however,  overtook  us  during 
my  trip,  and,  after  a  comparatively  uneventful 
voyage,  we  entered  the  safe  waters  of  the  Lynn 
Canal. 

The  Lynn  Canal  has  been  pronounced  by  many 
critics  to  furnish  the  grandest  scenery  in  the  world. 
At  the  mouth  stands  Mount  St.  Elias,  rising  over 
18,000  feet  sheer  from  the  water's  edge,  and 
backed  by  another  giant,  whose  name  escapes  me 

229 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

at  the  moment,  which  is  a  thousand  feet  higher. 
The  entire  "  Canal,"  which  is  about  ten  miles 
wide,  is  hedged  in  by  giant  peaks  of  eternal  ice 
and  snow,  which  sparkle  in  the  sunshine  with  a 
hundred  different  lights  and  colours. 

As  we  approached  Skagway,  Fred  Haggard 
and  I  were  considerably  intrigued  by  the  cease- 
less attentions  of  an  evil-looking  passenger  who 
hovered  with  unnecessary  insistence  in  our 
neighbourhood.  When  we  landed  and  found 
this  same  individual  dogging  our  footsteps  as 
we  tramped  the  streets  in  search  of  lodgings,  we 
had  little  doubt  but  that  he  knew  of  the  £2000 
I  carried  in  my  breast-pocket  and  intended 
transferring  it  by  some  means  to  his  own  breast- 
pocket. We  eventually  found  a  room  which 
appeared  clean,  and  we  had  just  come  to  terms 
with  the  owner  when  we  saw  our  villainous- 
looking  shadow  pass  rapidly  out  of  the  house. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  I  asked  of  our  landlord. 

"  I  don't  know  his  name,"  was  the  reply,  "  but 
he  has  just  hired  a  room  here  for  the  night." 

Our  suspicions  were  now  doubled.  There 
remained  no  doubt  in  our  minds  that  this  was  a 
"  tough  "  on  the  track  of  our  £2000.  We  had 
no  arms  and  there  was  no  lock  to  our  door,  but 
we  pulled  the  chest  of  drawers  across  and,  behind 
this  barrier,  slept  peacefully  till  morn.  Nothing 
happened.  When  we  rose  in  the  morning,  the 
£2000  was  still  safely  reposing  beneath  my  pillow 
and  the  cut-throat  tough  had  already  left.  We 
never  saw  him  again.     What  his  real  object  was 

230 


KLONDYKE 

in  following  us  (for  there  is  no  doubt  he  did  follow 
us)  must  for  ever  remain  a  mystery.  The 
probability  is  that  he  had  recognised  us  for 
English  greenhorns,  and  hoped  in  some  way  to 
make  profit  out  of  us  by  acting  as  our  guide  and 
counsellor.  It  is  practically  impossible  that  he 
can  have  known  of  the  money  I  carried. 

When  we  arrived  at  Skagway,  the  White  Pass 
railway  had  just  been  opened.  Like  everything 
American  (Skagway  and  the  White  Pass  are  in 
U.S.A.),  it  had  been  engineered,  built  and  opened 
with  almost  incredible  rapidity,  but  with  a 
corresponding  lack  of  stability.  The  Alaskan 
country  grows  no  big  timber  and  the  trestle- 
bridges  and  under-pins  that  held  the  track  above 
the  yawning  abysses  below  were  fashioned  out 
of  timber  that  was  far  too  small  for  safety. 
The  crankiness  of  the  track  was  in  everybody's 
mouth  and,  when  we  boarded  the  train  next  day, 
we  were  hardly  surprised  to  find  that  all  the 
passengers,  without  exception,  stood  throughout 
the  short  four-mile  journey  to  the  summit  on 
the  footboard  next  the  cliff,  ready  to  jump  and 
cling  when  the  train  plunged  down  into  the 
chasm  below,  as  everyone  expected  it  would. 
There  were  only  two  cars  on  the  train,  whose 
pace  was  between  three  and  four  miles  an  hour. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  never  any  serious 
accident  on  the  line,  and,  shortly  after  our  visit, 
big  timber  was  got  up  from  San  Francisco  and 
the  track  put  into  proper  condition. 

At   Bennet,    which   is   in   Canadian   territory, 

231 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

came  the  parting  of  the  ways,  those  bound  for 
Dawson  taking  to  the  Yukon  River,  while  we  who 
were  for  AtUn  boarded  the  stern-paddler  that 
was  to  carry  us  for  180  miles  along  the  narrow, 
boomerang-shaped  Takish  Lake. 

We  were  now  in  the  province  of  Yukon  and, 
during  our  eighteen  hours  on  the  lake,  we  had 
ample  opportunity  for  studying  the  character  of 
the  country.  The  Yukon  has  a  fascination  of 
its  own  which  lies  mainly  in  its  peculiar  desolation. 
In  place  of  the  precipitous,  forest-choked  valleys 
of  British  Columbia,  with  their  depressingly 
limited  horizon,  we  were  now  among  much 
flatter  hills  whose  sides  were  only  sparsely  clothed 
with  scrub,  or  with  dwarfed  and  stunted  fir  trees 
clinging  precariously  to  the  patches  of  soil 
between  the  rocks.  The  colouring  was  simply 
gorgeous,  the  atmosphere  clear  as  crystal  and 
the  horizon  incalculably  distant.  Later  on,  when 
we  were  clear  of  the  noisy  steamer,  the  most 
noticeable  features  of  this  northern  land  were, 
perhaps,  its  intense  silence  and  the  depressing 
absence  of  bird  life.  A  man  lost  in  these  parts, 
even  though  furnished  with  food  supplies,  and  in 
spite  of  the  vivid  beauty  of  the  landscape,  might 
well  be  driven  mad  by  the  uncanny  silence,  by 
the  absence  of  animal  life  and  above  all  by  the 
sense  of  illimitable  vastness. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  following  our 
departure  from  Bennet  before  we  reached  the 
Taku  River,  where  we  had  to  disembark  and 
cross  on  foot  to  Atlin  Lake.     The  Taku  River, 

232 


KLONDYKE 

clear  as  aquamarine,  came  tumbling  down  from 
Atlin  Lake  in  a  series  of  fascinating  pools  and 
rapids  which  were  more  than  my  angling  instincts 
were  able  to  resist.  I  had  brought  with  me  a  little 
hollow  steel  rod,  the  two  smaller  joints  of  which 
were  carried  in  the  larger,  and — for  the  moment 
quite  unmindful  of  graver  issues — I  hurriedly 
put  the  rod  together,  attached  my  reel  and  line, 
and  cast  an  experimental  fly  on  the  waters  of 
this  Arctic  stream.  My  success  was  instan- 
taneous. With  my  very  first  cast  I  hooked  a 
beautiful  silvery  spotless  trout  of  about  IJ  lbs. 
From  that  time  on  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that,  with  every  cast,  I  hooked  a  fish,  sometimes 
two,  for  I  was  fishing  with  three  flies.  Many  of 
them  broke  away,  for  I  had  no  landing  net  and 
had  to  haul  them  up  kicking  on  to  the  shingle. 
I  stood  throughout  on  the  one  spot  without 
budging.  The  sand-flies  filled  my  eye-sockets 
so  that  I  literally  could  hardly  see  the  water, 
but  in  spite  of  the  inconvenience  of  these  atten- 
tions, so  great  was  my  excitement  that  I  fished 
on  and  on,  heedless  of  the  fact  that  all  my  fellow- 
travellers  had  long  since  disappeared  down  the 
trail  through  the  forest.  Finally,  with  a  tre- 
mendous effort,  I  tore  myself  away  from  my 
engrossing  pursuit  and  made  a  desperate  effort 
to  overtake  the  caravan.  For  some  un- 
accountable reason  I  had  with  me  an  umbrella — 
object  of  some  curiosity  and  much  derision,  for 
no  such  thing  had  ever  before  been  seen  in  the 
Yukon.    The  umbrella,  however,  was  now  to  prove 

283 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

its  value,  for  I  put  all  the  fish  I  could  carry 
into  it,  seized  the  ends  of  the  steels  in  a  firm 
grasp  and,  with  the  umbrella  in  one  hand  and 
my  rod  in  the  other,  and  the  flies  still  choking 
up  my  eyes,  set  off  best  pace  down  the  trail  in 
pursuit  of  my  party.  The  trail  was  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  long,  and  when  I  arrived  panting 
and  perspiring  at  the  lake  edge,  there  was  the 
little  stem-paddler  half  a  mile  out,  puffing  its 
way  across  to  Atlin  on  the  farther  shore.  While 
I  was  anathematising  my  folly  in  having  yielded 
to  the  lure  of  the  river,  an  unkempt  figure  in 
greasy  blue  overalls  and  a  black  flannel  shirt, 
with  three  days'  growth  on  his  chin,  came  out  of 
the  solitary  tent  on  the  wharf  and  remarked  : 
"  I  am  afraid  you  have  missed  the  boat."  The 
tone  was  so  strikingly  European  that  I  stared  in 
some  surprise. 

"  Come  into  my  tent,"  he  suggested,  "  and  have 
a  smoke." 

I  accepted  his  invitation,  sat  down  on  an 
empty  packing-case  and  lit  my  pipe.  The 
stranger  was  greatly  interested  in  my  fish  and 
in  my  rod,  which  he  gave  me  to  understand  was 
the  first  trout-rod  ever  seen  in  Atlin.  Men  did 
not  visit  those  parts  in  quest  of  trout.  After  a 
time,  struck  by  the  incongruity  between  my 
host's  speech  and  his  appearance,  I  asked  for 
particulars  concerning  himself.  As  a  result  I 
was  told  one  of  the  saddest  stories  I  have  heard. 

Smith,  as  I  shall  name  my  friend,  had,  it 
appeared,  been  a  medical  student  in  Paris  when 

234 


KLONDYKE 

the  Klondyke  fever  burst  upon  the  world.  He 
was  badly  infected  and  determined  to  risk  his 
£600  capital  in  an  attempt  to  make  a  quick 
fortune.  Four  other  equally  adventurous  spirits 
joined  him  in  the  enterprise.  Between  them 
they  raised  £3000.  Their  plan  was  to  reach 
Atlin  from  Ashcroft  on  the  C.P.R.,  and  so  avoid 
the  double  duties  at  Skagway  and  Bennet  by 
keeping  throughout  on  Canadian  soil.  It  was  a 
mad  scheme,  for  much  of  the  country  they  had 
to  pass  through  was  unexplored  and  therefore 
almost  certain  to  prove  impenetrable.  So  in 
fact  it  turned  out.  Their  way  was  continually 
blocked  by  fallen  timber,  round  which  they  had 
to  make  long  and  wearisome  circuits.  The 
strength  of  man  and  beast  gradually  became 
exhausted.  They  started  on  their  1500-mile 
journey  with  twenty  horses  carrying  themselves, 
their  tents,  food  and  camp  equipment.  Smith 
was  the  only  one  that  reached  Atlin.  All  the 
horses  and  his  four  companions  died  on  the  way, 
and  he  himself  only  just  managed  to  stagger  into 
Atlin  with  nothing  in  the  world  but  a  double- 
barrelled  gun  and  the  shirt  on  his  back.  When 
I  met  him,  he  was  officially  employed  to  check 
the  baggage  on  the  wharf  at  which  the  daily  boat 
called.  I  suggested  his  writing  to  his  people, 
who  apparently  had  certain  means,  but  he 
declared  that  he  would  die  before  he  laid  himself 
open  to  the  "  I  told  you  so  "  taunts  which  his 
confession  of  failure  would  certainly  bring  upon 
him. 

235 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  his  story  it  was 
quite  aark,  and,  to  his  surprise  no  less  than  mine, 
we  saw  the  Hghts  of  the  little  stern-paddler 
approaching  from  the  far  shore. 

"  There  must  be  some  miners  coming  out," 
Smith  remarked.  "  You  are  in  luck.  It  is 
more  than  a  month  since  the  boat  made  two  trips 
across  in  one  day." 

True  enough  it  was,  as  Smith  surmised,  miners 
who  had  missed  the  first  boat  and  who  were 
ready — as  miners  always  are — to  pay  anything 
to  get  what  they  wanted.  I  left  some  of  my  fish 
with  Smith  and  a  promise  to  send  him  up  some 
cartridges  from  Vancouver;  but  I  never  saw  him 
again,  although  I  made  one  memorable  and  very 
nearly  fatal  attempt  to  do  so.     It  was  in  this  wise. 

After  we  had  been  in  Atlin  for  a  few  days,  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  New  York  lady 
named  Mrs.  Hitchcock,  who  was,  as  may  readily 
be  supposed,  the  only  lady  in  Atlin,  but  who, 
having  large  mining  interests  in  the  country, 
had  very  pluckily  resolved  to  come  up  to  the 
Yukon  and  see  about  them  for  herself.  I  told 
her  the  story  of  "  Smith,"  and  she  was  so  greatly 
interested  that  she  organised  a  party  to  cross  the 
lake  and  interview  him  with  a  view  to  philanthropic 
action.  At  the  same  time  it  was  decided,  while 
we  were  there,  to  test  the  fishing  possibilities  of 
the  Taku  River  to  the  full. 

On  the  morning  arranged,  the  chosen  party 
assembled  at  a  narrow  little  creek  that  abutted 
upon  the  great  lake,  where  lay  the  boat  which  was 

236 


KLONDYKE 

to  carry  us  across  the  four  miles  of  intervening 
and  very  agitated  water.  The  party  consisted 
of  Mrs.  Hitchcock,  Haggard  and  myself,  Bromley, 
our  mining  engineer,  the  young  English  parson 
attached  to  Atlin  and  two  boatmen.  With 
considerable  difficulty  the  seven  of  us  squeezed 
ourselves  into  the  very  limited  space  which  the 
boat  offered.  We  four  passengers,  so  to  speak, 
were  wedged  into  the  stern,  where  we  sat  packed 
together  like  herrings,  while  the  two  boatmen 
and  the  parson,  who  was  acting  as  skipper, 
remained  forward  to  see  to  the  hoisting  of  the 
sail.  When  we  were  all  in,  I  noticed  with  some 
concern  that  the  stern  of  the  boat  was  down  to 
within  two  inches  of  the  water.  The  creek 
where  we  had  embarked,  being  sheltered  from 
the  wind,  was  as  calm  as  a  mill-pond,  but,  out 
in  the  open  water,  I  could  see  big  foam-crested 
waves  chasing  one  another  in  quick  succession 
down  the  ninety-six  miles  of  the  lake's  length.  I 
felt  very  uneasy.  How  in  the  name  of  reason 
could  a  boat  be  expected  to  carry  a  sail  among 
waves  such  as  those,  when  the  water  was  lapping 
her  gunwale  in  a  dead  calm?  However,  no  one 
else  seemed  to  share  my  misgivings,  so  I  said 
nothing  and  we  pushed  off.  In  doing  so  one  of 
the  boatmen  stumbled  across  a  seat,  and  the 
lurch  which  he  gave  brought  an  ominous  trickle 
of  water  over  the  stern.  Then  up  spake  Fred 
Haggard.  "  Mrs.  Hitchcock,"  he  said,  "  do 
you  know  that  you  are  going  to  certain  death 
out    in    the    lake    there?"      Mrs.     Hitchcock 

237 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

expressed  surprise  and  ignorance.  She  knew 
nothing  about  boats.  I  did;  and  now  that  the 
first  word  had  been  spoken,  I  loudly  seconded 
Fred  Haggard's  warning,  and  Bromley,  who  was 
a  composed  and  undemonstrative  person,  reso- 
lutely supported  our  view.  Only  the  parson  was 
derisive.  He  had  sailed  this  particular  boat,  he 
said,  across  the  lake  a  score  of  times  in  worse 
weather  than  there  was  that  day.  "  Yes,"  I 
suggested,  "  but  with  two  people  in  the  boat, 
and  not  seven."  Still  he  sniffed  and  pooh- 
poohed,  but  the  weight  of  opinion  was  now  very 
decidedly  against  him  and  we  put  back.  When 
we  were  once  more  on  shore,  feeling  slightly 
ashamed  of  myself  and  the  timid  part  I  had 
played,  I  got  hold  of  Mackie,  the  owner  of  the 
boat,  who  had  so  far  uttered  no  word  and  shown 
no  interest  in  the  discussion. 

"  Should  we  have  got  across  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  Not  a  chance,"  he  replied  calmly. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed;  "then  why 
did  you  let  us  start  ?  " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  see  I'm  a  Scot,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  it  said  that  I  turned  my  back  on 
anything  that  others  would  face.  But  I  was 
right  glad,"  he  added,  "  when  yon  gentleman 
spoke  out." 

With  a  distinct  sense  of  grievance,  I  turned 
away  and  sought  out  Johnson,  the  other  boat- 
man, who  was  standing  some  little  way  apart. 

"  Do  you  think  we  should  have  been  swamped 
out  in  the  lake  there?  "  I  asked  him. 

238 


KLONDYKE 

"  Sure  thing,"  he  replied,  spitting  uncon- 
cernedly into  the  water;  "she  couldn't  have 
lived  two  minutes  in  that  sea,  loaded  the  way  she 
was." 

"But  why  didn't  you  say  so?"  I  asked 
irritably. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  explained,  "  it's  Mackie's 
boat  and  I'm  only  hired  for  the  day,  so  it  wasn't 
really  my  place  to  speak." 

I  then  questioned  Bromley  and  learned  that 
he  too  had  known  we  were  doomed  the  moment 
he  saw  how  close  to  the  water  was  the  gunwale 
of  the  boat.  So  here  were  four  of  us,  all  grown 
men  and  reputedly  sane,  going  knowingly  to  a 
purposeless  and  absolutely  idiotic  death  because 
we  were  all  afraid  to  say  that  we  were  afraid  ! 
There  is  no  doubt  that  Fred  Haggard  saved  all  our 
lives  that  day,  for  no  one  could  have  swum  six 
strokes  in  that  icy  water.  His  was  a  brave  act, 
and  that  is  why  I  have  recorded  the  incident. 
The  rest  of  us  were  cowards. 

In  all  the  financial  enterprises  upon  which  I 
embarked  in  those  days,  my  three  close  associates 
were  Fred  Haggard,  Alexander  Hill,  the  most 
honest  and  conscientious  mining  engineer  that 
ever  assayed  a  sample,  and  Herbert-Smith,  the 
greatest  and  the  straightest  of  all  City  lawyers. 
We  were  all  about  the  same  age,  and  we  used 
to  speak  of  ourselves  as  the  four  H's.  Alas  I  of 
that  quartet,  I  alone  remain.  I  could  write  a 
volume  about  Alexander  Hill  and  Herbert-Smith 
— two  of  the  finest  characters  it  has  been  my  lot 

239 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

to  rub  shoulders  with  along  the  path  of  life,  but 
they  are  not  in  this  story.  Fred  Haggard  is, 
and  because  he  is  in  the  story,  and  because  for 
over  twenty  years  he  played  the  Damon  to  my 
Pythias,  I  hope  that  those  who  never  met  him 
will  forgive  a  short  and  humble  epitaph  to  the 
memory  of  one  of  the  best.  I  travelled  with  him, 
as  I  am  now  recounting,  from  London  to  the 
Yukon  and  back;  I  travelled  with  him,  as  I 
shall  recount  in  the  next  chapter,  from  London 
to  the  interior  of  Peru  and  back.  I  travelled 
with  him  on  a  wild  and  very  expensive  goose- 
chase  into  the  heart  of  the  mountain  range  that 
separates  Hungary  and  Roumania;  I  spent 
three  days  and  two  nights  with  him  on  a  filthy 
tug  which  we  chartered  at  Vancouver  to  take  us 
up  a  desolate  inlet  known  as  Frederick  Arm,  for 
the  inspection  of  a  mine  of  doubtful  value 
belonging  to  our  Syndicate.  When,  after  a 
horribly  uncomfortable  journey,  we  reached 
this  inaccessible  spot,  Bromley,  who  accom- 
panied us,  condemned  the  mine  and  Haggard 
and  I,  as  representatives  of  the  owners,  ordered 
its  immediate  evacuation.  So  we  took  the  eight 
miners  back  with  us  on  the  tug  and,  at  the  water's 
edge,  we  shot  the  beautiful  young  chestnut  mare 
that  carried  down  their  gear.  It  was  a  tragedy, 
but  there  was  no  other  way,  so  we  left  the  poor 
thing  there,  with  its  four  hoofs  sticking  dismally 
up  in  the  air,  for  the  coyotes  to  eat.  It  rained 
during  the  whole  of  this  trip ;  real  straight  solid 
rain.     We  neither  shaved  nor  washed  nor  changed 

240 


V  ^ 


White  Pass. 


KLONDYKE 

a  stitch  of  our  clothing.  We  were  wet  through, 
and  we  ate  and  slept  in  the  forecastle,  or  the 
cockpit,  or  whatever  it  is  called,  cheek  by  jowl 
with  the  crew  and  the  miners,  and  with  the 
cockroaches  swarming  round  the  swinging  oil 
lamp  on  the  low  ceiling  four  feet  above  our  faces. 
It  was  a  trying  experience,  and  one  during  which 
Damon  might  excusably  have  poleaxed  Pythias; 
but,  neither  on  that  occasion  nor  on  any  other 
during  our  long,  and  occasionally  uneasy,  travels, 
did  Fred  Haggard  and  I  ever  quarrel.  It  is 
impossible  to  quarrel  with  a  man  who  never  loses 
his  temper.  He  was  often  irritable  to  the  extent 
of  peevishness,  but  always  with  circumstances 
and  never  with  me;  and,  so  intensely  acute  was 
his  appreciation  of  the  humorous  side  of  a 
situation,  that  his  fits  of  peevishness  died  almost 
before  they  were  born.  The  one  that  stands  out 
in  my  memory  as  having  lasted  longest  was  in 
Vienna,  when  his  tobacco-pouch  was  empty  and 
he  could  not  find  a  tobacconist.  No  one,  of 
course,  can  in  Vienna.  There  are  none.  But 
he  could  always  find  something  to  make  him 
laugh,  even  in  his  own  discomforts  and  privations, 
and  no  man  that  I  have  known  had  the  same 
strange  power  of  dispelling  irritability  in  others.  If 
I  had  been  Prime  Minister,  on  the  point  of  em- 
broilment with  other  Powers,  I  should  have  sent 
Fred  Haggard  as  my  ambassador  to  smooth 
things  over.  If  I  had  been  a  jeweller  under 
orders  to  go  round  the  world  in  a  sailing-boat, 
I  should  have  left  my  stock  in  the  hands  of  Fred 

B  241 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Haggard.  If  I  had  been  condemned  to  pass  the 
rest  of  my  life  on  a  desert  island  with  one  man 
only  for  company  I  should  have  chosen  Fred 
Haggard.     No  man  can  say  more  than  this. 

Atlin  City  in  1899  was  a  funny  little  straggling 
street  of  wooden  houses  standing  on  the  edge  of 
a  lake  four  miles  wide  and  ninety-six  miles  in 
length.  It  had  no  industry  of  its  own,  but  was 
the  focus-point  of  all  the  mining  camps  around. 
It  subsisted  on  "  mush "  (porridge)  and  trout 
caught  with  a  spinning-bait  in  the  icy  waters 
of  the  great  lake.  These  trout  weighed  from 
twenty  to  thirty  pounds  and  were  "  hawked  " 
round  every  morning  dangling  from  a  pole 
carried  by  two  men,  who  were  the  fish  purveyors 
to  the  "  city."  They  were  as  good  eating  as 
any  salmon.  Beyond  these  fish,  Atlin  produced 
nothing  in  the  way  of  food.  Everything  else 
came  up  from  Vancouver  or  Seattle.  Beer  was 
the  price  of  champagne  and  everything  else  in 
proportion. 

The  mining  camps  were  a  great  interest. 
Fiction,  with  a  shadow  of  fact  behind  it — fact 
dating  back  in  most  cases  to  the  Forty-niners — 
has  painted  the  Western  miner  a  savage  desperado 
with  knife  or  pistol  always  ready  to  hand.  I, 
on  the  other  hand,  found  him  the  salt  of  the 
earth.  This  is  no  exaggeration.  With  an  ex- 
perience of  many  countries  and  many  nationalities 
behind  me,  I  can  truly  say  that  I  found  human 
nature  at  its  best  in  the  mining  camps  of  the 
great   North-West.     Nowhere   else   have   I   met 

242 


KLONDYKE 

with  such  disinterested  kindness  or  seen  such 
mutual  goodwill  and  brotherhood  among  men — 
each  man  helping  his  neighbour  as  though  it 
were  himself.  It  needs  the  hardship  and  loneli- 
ness of  the  wilds  to  bring  these  qualities  out  of 
men.  They  lean  together  because  the  battle 
they  are  all  fighting  is  a  battle  against  cruel  and 
adverse  elements.  So  great  was  my  attachment 
to,  and  trust  in,  these  rough  miners  that  I  even 
made  a  practice  of  playing  "  poker  "  with  them 
when  they  came  into  Atlin,  and  I  continued  to 
do  so  in  the  steamer  the  whole  way  down  the 
coast  to  Vancouver.  My  playmates  were  perhaps 
a  little  more  watchful  of  one  another  than  the 
drawing-room  poker-player,  but  there  was  no 
sign  either  of  cheating  or  of  knives  and  pistols. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied,  of  course,  that  there  were 
occasional  black  sheep  among  these  gold-seekers, 
as  there  will  always  be  in  every  community, 
but  for  such  the  Atlin  mining  camps  were  far 
from  healthy.  Infringements  of  the  local  code 
were  dealt  with  summarily  and  without  mercy. 
As  to  the  advisability  of  respecting  this  code  I 
was  very  quickly  '*  put  wise."  Just  inside  the 
entrance  to  each  tent  at  a  mining  camp  we  visited, 
about  six  miles  from  Atlin,  there  stood  one  or 
more  zinc  buckets  full  to  the  brim  with  gold-dust 
and  nuggets,  and  apparently  offering  exceptional 
opportunities  to  anyone  with  shop-lifting  ten- 
dencies. I  remarked  as  much  to  my  companion, 
an  old  rugged  miner. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  with  suitable  expectoration 

243 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

*'  We  had  one  in  this  camp  not  long  back 
with  socialistic  views  as  to  the  distribution  of 
accumulated  wealth.  I  reckon  he  was  swinging 
from  that  pine  tree  yonder  almost  before  his 
pockets  were  clear  of  the  gold  he'd  pinched." 

Such  was  the  unalterable  code  of  the  North- 
West,  and,  though  it  may  be  stern,  it  is  clear  that 
it  is  the  only  way,  where  there  are  no  bolts  and 
bars,  and  where  the  whole  of  a  man's  earthly 
possessions  lie  exposed  to  a  grasp  of  the  hand. 
The  penalty  for  gold-pilfering,  at  the  time  of  my 
visit,  was  death  without  appeal,  and,  as  this  was 
universally  known  and  recognised  as  being  just, 
cases  of  gold-theft  were  very  rare.  In  cases 
where  summary  executions  did  take  place,  the 
authorities  were  generally  blind  and  deaf,  recog- 
nising, as  they  did,  that  all  communities  must 
be  governed  by  some  code,  and  being  powerless 
to  administer  effective  justice  themselves.  The 
worst  "  tough  "  in  the  Yukon  when  I  was  there 
was  a  man  named  "  Soapy  "  Smith.  As  far  as  I 
recollect,  he  was  eventually  lynched. 

Gold  mining  throughout  the  Klondyke  district 
was  "  placer "  mining,  i.e.  the  sifting  of  frag- 
mentary gold  out  of  alluvial  deposits.  In  most 
cases  the  "  dirt  "  is  washed  through  sluice-boxes, 
the  cross-bars  of  which  catch  the  gold,  while  the 
lighter  mud  is  carried  away.  In  cases  where  the 
miner  has  no  water-rights,  he  has  to  content 
himself  with  panning  out  the  gold  in  a  metal 
basin — a  slow  and  tedious  process  and  one  calling 
for  considerable  skill. 

244 


KLONDYKE 

Fred  Haggard  and  I  left  Atlin  on  October  1st, 
having,  after  much  hagghng,  reduced  the  purchase 
price  of  our  Anaconda  mine  from  twenty  thousand 
pounds  to  two  thousand,  which,  as  it  after- 
wards turned  out,  was  exactly  two  thousand 
pounds  too  much.  Every  morning,  for  some 
days  before  our  departure,  when  we  wandered 
out  into  the  rough,  broad  street  that  led  down  to 
the  lake's  edge,  the  snow-line  on  the  hills  across 
the  lake  had,  during  the  night,  perceptibly  crept 
down,  hard-cut  and  sharp  as  though  pared  by  a 
knife.  On  October  1st  it  was  very  near  the 
lake's  level,  although,  so  far,  no  snow  to  speak 
of  had  fallen  in  Atlin  itself.  The  surface  of  the 
lake,  too,  had  a  film  of  ice  on  it  as  we  cut  our 
way  across  in  the  little  Atlin  Queen.  For  a  week 
or  so  more  the  stern-paddler  would  force  her  way 
through  the  thickening  ice,  and  then  boat  traffic 
would  cease  till  the  following  May.  A  certain 
amount  of  coming  and  going  took  place  through 
the  winter  months  with  "  huskies  "  and  sleighs, 
but  this  was  toilsome  and  expensive,  and  few 
ventured  it  unless  driven.  The  handful  who  had 
remained  on  in  Atlin  through  the  winter  told  me 
that,  although  it  was  often  40°  below  zero,  the 
cold  was  not  very  noticeable  unless  a  wind  blew, 
and  then  no  one  ventured  out  except  in  complete 
sheepskin  armour,  face  and  all.  The  worst 
feature,  they  all  agreed,  was  the  deathly  silence. 

By  the  date  of  our  departure  the  tales  as  to 
the  ricketiness  of  the  White  Pass  railway  had 
become    so    accentuated    that    Haggard    and    I 

245 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

elected  to  walk  down  from  the  summit  to  Skagway, 
keeping  with  ease  in  front,  or  alongside,  of  the 
train.  The  only  trying  part  of  the  walk  was 
where  the  trestle-bridges  had  to  be  crossed. 
These  were  exceedingly  narrow  (the  gauge,  if  I 
remember  right,  was  only  three  feet)  and  ex- 
ceedingly high  above  the  chasm  below.  Although 
the  sleepers  were  Jittle  more  than  a  foot  apart, 
the  necessity  for  watching  one's  feet  the  whole 
while,  and  the  consequent  ceaseless  view  of  the 
abyss  below,  after  a  time  produced  a  sense  of 
vertigo  which  was  far  from  comfortable.  Haggard, 
who  had  a  bad  head  for  heights,  boarded  the 
train  for  the  transit  of  the  trestle-bridges  and  so 
very  nearly  met  his  end,  for  the  engine  left  the 
rails  in  the  middle  of  the  highest  and  longest 
trestle-bridge,  and,  when  it  pulled  up,  was  not 
more  than  three  inches  from  the  edge  of  the  bridge. 
With  wonderful  nerve  and  skill  the  engine  was 
finally  replaced  on  the  rails  by  means  of  jacks, 
and  the  train  proceeded  on  its  funereal  career. 
We  were  glad  to  get  to  Skagway. 


246 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PERU 

In  the  year  following  our  trip  to  Atlin,  the 
Syndicate  which  had  sent  us  there,  and  which 
seemed  generously  inclined  to  thank  us  for  having 
saved  them  eighteen  thousand  pounds  rather 
than  to  blame  us  for  having  lost  them  two 
thousand,  asked  Fred  Haggard  and  myself  to 
make  the  journey  to  the  interior  of  Peru  for 
the  purpose  of  inspecting  and,  if  necessary,  pur- 
chasing another  gold-mine.  The  reports  con- 
cerning this  mine  were  more  dazzling  even  than 
those  which  had  taken  us  out  to  the  Yukon.  It 
was  said  to  have  furnished  the  old  Inca  kings 
with  all  the  material  for  the  golden  tulips  with 
which  their  gardens  at  Cuzco  were  at  one  time 
made  so  bright,  but,  since  that  day,  to  have  lain 
dormant  for  three  hundred  years,  waiting  for 
some  enterprising  spirits  (such  as  our  Syndicate) 
to  continue  the  process  of  gold- extraction. 

We  gladly  undertook  the  mission,  for  the 
expedition  promised  some  unusual  experiences. 

The  first  and  not  the  least  interesting  of  these 
experiences  was  a  surreptitious  visit  which  Hag- 
gard, Mrs.  Haggard  and  myself  paid  to  the 
forbidden  town  of  Jacmel  in  Haiti. 

Haiti  is  the  mystery  island  of  the  world,  for 

247 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

— apart  from  its  uncanny  Voodoo  worship  and 
all  the  horrible  stories  connected  with  that  cult 
— it  is  the  only  island  in  the  world  which  has 
so  far  successfully  resisted  exploration  by  white 
men.  One  may  say  even  more  than  this.  It 
has  even  been  successful  in  resisting  exploration 
by  the  two  black  republics  that  nominally  own 
the  island,  for  these,  in  point  of  fact,  know  no 
more  about  the  interior  than  does  the  Royal 
Geographical  Society.  Both  the  St.  Domingo 
and  the  Haiti  blacks  live  in  continual  mortal 
terror  of  the  aboriginal  Indians  who  occupy  the 
interior,  and  with  every  reason  too,  for  very 
rarely  has  anyone,  either  black  or  white,  returned 
from  any  inquisitive  excursions  beyond  the  very 
narrow  coastal  limits  over  which  the  two  black 
republics  really  hold  sway.  The  few  enter- 
prising spirits  who  have  succeeded  in  penetrating 
a  short  distance  inland,  and  have  returned  alive, 
have  learned  nothing  of  the  interior.  How  should 
they?  Haiti  is  bigger  than  England  and  Wales 
combined. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  a 
French  army  of  40,000  men  essayed  the  conquest 
and  occupation  of  the  island,  but  met  instead  the 
fate  of  all  those  who  meddle  with  the  mysteries 
of  Haiti,  for  the  entire  army  perished,  partly 
from  malaria,  but  mainly  at  the  hands  of  the 
aboriginal  natives,  who — themselves  invisible — 
harassed  the  invaders  day  and  night  with  poisoned 
darts  and  arrows.  Thus  ended  the  last  military 
attempt  to  subjugate  the  island. 

248 


PERU 

Haiti  would  appear  to  be  a  land  of  surpassing 
loveliness.  Slightly  smaller  than  Cuba,  but  by 
far  larger  than  any  of  the  other  West  Indian 
islands,  it  is  also  by  far  the  most  beautiful,  as 
seen  from  the  sea.  Range  upon  range  of  towering 
mountains  rise  up  almost  from  the  water's  edge, 
completely  clothed  almost  to  their  summits  with 
a  forest  of  emerald  green,  which,  in  the  more 
distant  ranges,  gradually  melts  into  a  turquoise 
blue.  The  possibilities  of  the  interior,  both  as 
regards  scenery,  climate  and  productiveness,  are 
almost  unlimited,  but  it  is  safe  to  predict  that 
the  interior  will  guard  its  age-old  secrets  for  many 
years  to  come,  except,  perhaps,  to  the  superficial 
eye  of  the  aeroplane  observer. 

Haggard  and  I  had  an  overwhelming  desire  to 
set  foot  on  this  forbidden  island.  The  rule  of 
the  Royal  Mail  S.P.  Co.  is  very  strict  as  to  no 
passengers  being  allowed  to  land,  under  any 
pretext  whatsoever,  owing  to  the  fanatical  hatred 
of  the  black  republics  for  all  the  white  races. 
Fred  Haggard,  however,  was  gifted  with  a  per- 
suasiveness of  manner  which  few  human  beings 
could  resist  for  long.  In  his  informal,  half- 
humorous,  half-cynical  style,  he  opened  the 
attack  on  the  captain  on  the  day  preceding 
our  arrival  at  Jacmel.  He  was  met  with  an 
immediate  and  peremptory  refusal,  at  which 
Fred  Haggard  laughed  good-humouredly,  relit 
his  eternal  pipe  and  for  the  moment  withdrew. 
Shortly  afterwards,  however,  he  returned  to  the 
attack  and,  long  before  Haiti  was  in  sight,  the 

249 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

captain  had  capitulated  to  Haggard's  good- 
humoured  persuasiveness,  as  everyone  always 
did  in  the  long  run.  It  was  arranged  that,  if  we 
undertook  not  to  whisper  a  word  of  our  permit 
to  the  other  passengers,  Haggard,  Mrs.  Haggard 
and  I  might  go  ashore  at  Jacmel  for  two  hours 
in  the  boat  which  carried  the  mails.  He  warned 
Mrs.  Haggard,  however,  that  there  was  con- 
siderable risk  in  what  she  was  doing,  and  urged 
us,  for  our  own  sakes  as  well  as  his,  to  be  extremely 
circumspect  in  our  demeanour  towards  the  people. 
This  undertaking  we  gladly  gave,  and  next 
morning — to  the  open-mouthed  amazement  of 
the  other  passengers — we  slipped  quietly  into 
the  gig  which  was  to  carry  the  mails  across  the 
mile  of  water  which  separated  Jacmel  and  the 
S.S.  Atraio. 

When  we  landed,  the  second  officer,  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  mails,  and  whose  duty  it  was  to 
see  them  safely  to  the  Post  Office,  gave  us  an 
exact  time  for  our  return,  saluted  and  went  his 
way,  leaving  us  three  intruders  to  our  own 
devices.  We  turned  in  the  opposite  direction  to 
the  Post  Office  and — feeling  half  brave  and  half 
foolish — commenced  our  wanderings. 

The  demeanour  of  the  population  towards  us 
was  interesting  and  peculiar.  We  were  eyed 
with  the  greatest  curiosity  and  with  marked 
disapproval ;  that  is  to  say,  no  one  smiled  at  us, 
no  one  seemed  pleased  to  see  us ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  seemed  very  far  from  pleased  to  see  us; 
their  looks  were  most  distinctly  unfriendly.     On 

250 


PERU 

the  other  hand,  there  was  no  attempt  at  active 
hostility  and  we  were  not  even  mobbed.  People 
scowled  at  us,  but  they  made  no  attempt  to 
follow  us.  Once  or  twice  a  burly  negro  showed 
a  disposition  to  hustle  us  off  the  footway,  but 
mindful  of  the  captain's  injunctions,  we  gave 
way  and  there  was  no  collision. 

Our  main  object  was  to  find  the  famous  church, 
of  whose  peculiarities  we  had  heard  so  much, 
but,  as  our  undirected  wanderings  failed  to  bring 
any  such  building  within  sight,  we  were  at  length 
forced  to  make  inquiries.  In  some  trepidation 
of  mind,  I  approached  the  most  benevolent- 
looking  old  negro  I  could  pick  out,  and  taking 
off  my  hat  with  a  flourish,  said  ; 

"  Ayez  le  bonte.  Monsieur,  de  m'indiquer 
I'eglise  nationale." 

To  which,  to  my  unmixed  relief  and  no  little 
astonishment,  he  replied  : 

"  Avec  le  plus  grand  plaisir  possible.  Monsieur. 
La  premiere  a  gauche,  epuis  la  troisieme  a 
droite,"  etc.,  etc. 

There  is  something  to  my  mind  absurdly 
incongruous  in  the  French  language  coming  from 
negro  lips.  It  seems  at  first  the  most  grotesque 
misfit  imaginable,  but  it  is  quite  certain  that 
no  other  language  can  the  Jacmel  negro  either 
understand  or  speak.  We  took  a  polite  farewell 
of  our  informant  and,  following  his  instructions, 
soon  came  in  sight  of  the  church,  which  is  remark- 
able for  two  things  only — a  fine  bas-relief  of  the 
Last  Supper  in  which  all  the  Apostles  are  black 

251 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

except  Judas,  who  is  a  white  man;  and  a  life- 
size  figure  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  is  a  negress 
as  black  as  coal.  Having  regaled  our  eyes  for 
some  time  with  these  curious  illustrations  of  the 
Jacmel  interpretation  of  the  Gospel  story,  we 
left  the  church  and  wandered  a  short  way  into 
the  country,  but  the  looks  of  the  few  people  we 
met  on  the  road  were  so  very  much  more  hostile 
than  those  of  the  townspeople,  that  after  a  short 
time  we  thought  it  best  to  retrace  our  steps 
towards  the  quay. 

On  our  way  back  we  had  a  piece  of  rare  luck, 
for  we  passed  the  Admiral  of  the  Haitian  Navy. 
The  Haitian  Navy  consisted  at  that  time,  and 
for  all  I  know  to  the  contrary  still  consists,  of  a 
single  small  obsolete  war-ship,  but  what  it  lacked 
in  tonnage  it  made  up  for  in  the  magnificence  of 
its  Admiral,  who  was  faultlessly  arrayed  in  blue 
tunic  and  epaulettes,  cocked  hat  and  sword, 
and  whose  breast  was  resplendent  with  two  rows 
of  decorations.  Repressing  an  almost  irresistible 
impulse  to  shout  out,  "  Yah  1  Massa  Sambo," 
we  took  off  our  hats  to  this  splendid  figure,  who 
haughtily  saluted  in  return. 

Curiously  enough,  the  only  attempt  at  a  hostile 
demonstration  while  we  were  on  the  island  was 
made  by  a  white  man,  or,  to  be  more  accurate, 
by  a  man  who  was  almost  white.  This  man,  as 
we  afterwards  learned,  was  a  refugee  from 
Jamaican  justice,  from  which  he  had  fled  for 
safety  to  Haiti,  where  he  was  able  to  his  heart's 
content  to  vent  his  spleen  against  the  whole  race 

252 


PERU 

of  white  men.  We  unfortunately  arrived  at  the 
quay  some  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  appointed 
time,  and,  while  we  were  waiting  there  for  the 
second  officer,  this  madman  (for  he  evidently 
was  mad)  commenced  a  frenzied  harangue  of  the 
mob-orator  type  directed  against  us  three  in- 
truders on  the  privacy  of  the  island.  Gradually 
he  collected  a  crowd,  as  such  people  always  do, 
and  we  could  see  only  too  plainly,  by  their 
flashing  eyeballs,  that  he  was  working  his  audience 
up  into  a  state  of  excitement  little  short  of  his 
own.  We  were  very  glad  when  the  second 
officer  arrived  and  we  were  able  to  push  off  out 
of  hearing  of  the  raving  imprecations  with  which 
he  pursued  us. 

Barbadoes  and  Jamaica  I  found  uninteresting, 
and  Colon  inexpressibly  dirty.  Unluckily  for  us, 
we  were  detained  at  the  latter  place  several  days 
on  account  of  a  bloodthirsty  rebellion  which  was 
raging  in  Colombia  at  the  time.  Eventually,  how- 
ever, the  railway  was  pronounced  clear  and  we  were 
allowed  to  proceed.  We  reached  Panama  with- 
out coming  in  sight  of  either  of  the  contending 
armies,  and  there  took  ship  for  Callao  on  the 
Chilian  steam-boat  Aconcagua  (pronounced  Ack- 
ongower).  The  sea  voyage  to  Callao  occupied  at 
that  time  from  ten  to  fourteen  days  owing  to 
the  many  uncleanly  and  pestiferous  ports  at 
which  the  coasting  steamers  thought  it  necessary 
to  call.  Of  these  the  most  pestiferous  and,  at 
the  same  time,  the  most  important  was  Guaya- 
quil  in   Ecuador,    the   chosen    home   of   cocoa, 

253 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

Florida  water,  mosquitoes,  yellow  fever  and 
sudden  death.  The  town  of  Guayaquil  has  been 
built,  owing  either  to  force  majeure  or  to  the 
insanity  of  man,  in  one  of  the  unhealthiest  spots 
in  the  world.  Not  content  with  being  mathe- 
matically on  the  equator,  it  is  thirty  miles  up  a 
sluggish  river  which,  when  the  tide  is  out,  leaves 
bare  a  broad  expanse  of  stinking  yellow  mud, 
beloved  of  crocodiles  but  very  bad  for  man. 
We  left  it  after  a  stay  of  two  days  without  regret, 
but  with  many  unsolicited  testimonials  as  to  its 
unhealthiness  in  the  shape  of  mosquito  bites. 

One  little  incident  occurred  on  the  way  down 
to  Callao  which,  small  as  it  was,  made  me  glad 
that  I  was  an  Englishman.  A  fire  broke  out  one 
morning  in  the  ship's  hold,  which  shot  forth 
a  thin  but  ominous  column  of  smoke  through 
one  of  the  hatches.  The  crews  of  the  Chilian 
line  of  steamers  are  mostly  dagos,  but  the  officers 
are  all  European  and  our  chief  officer  was  an 
Englishman  of  the  name  of  Lee.  The  moment 
the  fire  broke  out,  the  crew  came  tumbling  up 
from  below,  brandishing  knives  and  gibbering 
like  maniacs,  and  made  a  rush  for  the  boats. 
Their  rush,  however,  was  stopped  by  the  small 
but  determined  figure  of  Lee,  who,  revolver  in 
hand,  barred  the  way.  A  trial  of  nerve  followed, 
which  ended  by  Lee  gradually  driving  the  crew 
before  him  into  the  bows,  where  he  held  them. 
Beckoning  to  the  third  officer,  he  slipped  the 
revolver  into  the  junior's  hand,  told  him  to  keep 
the  crew  covered  and  shoot  the  first  man  that 

254 


PERU 

rushed,  while  he  himself  dived  down  into  the 
hold  through  the  hatch  from  which  the  smoke 
was  issuing.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  reappeared, 
black  as  a  sweep  from  head  to  foot,  but  trium- 
phant, for  the  fire  was  out.  He  had  smothered 
it  with  mats.  As  we  were  carrying  a  desperately 
inflammable  and,  I  believe,  quite  illegal  cargo, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Lee's  prompt  and 
determined  action  saved  the  lives  of  all  on 
board. 

We  spent  a  week  in  Lima  making  preparations 
for  our  expedition  into  the  interior,  and  during 
this  week  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  be 
favoured  with  the  only  shower  which  Lima  had 
enjoyed  for  seventy  years.  For  five  minutes  it 
rained  solid  tropical  rain.  The  terror-stricken 
inhabitants  thought  the  end  of  the  world  had 
come,  and  I  believe  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
end  of  the  greater  part  of  Lima  would  most 
assuredly  have  come  had  the  shower  lasted 
another  five  minutes,  for  the  town  is  largely 
built  of  mud.  As  it  was,  the  rain  produced 
some  interesting  effects.  Both  the  dining-room 
and  main  staircase  of  our  hotel  were  open  to 
the  air,  and,  by  the  end  of  the  storm,  the  water 
was  foaming  down  the  latter  with  the  force  and 
effect  of  a  miniature  Niagara. 

Along  the  six  miles  of  flat,  arid  sand  which 
separates  the  Andes  from  the  sea  throughout  the 
length  of  Peru  it  never  rains.  Numbers  of 
torrential  streams,  however,  tumble  down  sea- 
wards  from   the   Andes,    and   it   only   requires 

255 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

intelligent  irrigation  to  make  this  barren  stretch 
of  waste  land  grow  anything.  The  old  Incas 
clearly  irrigated  it,  for  the  remains  of  their 
aqueducts  are  still  in  evidence,  but  the  modern 
Peruvian  is  too  indolent. 

We  spent  two  days  at  Chosica,  5000  feet  up, 
with  a  view  to  training  ourselves  gradually  to 
altitudes.  On  the  afternoon  of  one  of  these  days, 
the  four  members  of  our  party — that  is  to  say, 
Fred  Haggard,  Frank  Merrick,  the  mining  engi- 
neer, a  herculean  young  doctor  named  Robert 
Wilmot  and  myself— agreed  that  it  would  be 
pleasant  and  exhilarating  to  walk  to  the  top  of 
a  conical  hill  which  faced  the  inn.  We  set  out 
in  cheerful  mood.  After  some  two  hours'  work, 
during  which  our  progress  was  disappointing,  a 
difference  of  opinion  arose  as  to  the  best  route  to 
take  in  order  to  reach  the  top  with  the  least 
difficulty.  My  three  companions  were  firmly 
persuaded  that  we  ought  to  bear  to  the  right, 
while  I  was  just  as  obstinately  convinced  that 
the  left-hand  course  was  the  best  one.  So  heated 
did  the  argument  become  that  we  finally  agreed 
to  separate,  I  going  my  way  and  they  theirs. 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that,  after  we  had  parted 
company,  I  stretched  myself  to  the  utmost  in 
order  to  prove  that  I  was  right  by  reaching  the 
top  first.  With  every  ounce  of  energy  that  was 
in  me,  I  climbed  and  climbed  towards  my 
objective  till  my  limbs  ached  and  my  brow 
grew  very  damp  indeed,  but  without  in  any  way, 
as  it  seemed,  lessening  the  distance   which   lay 

256 


Author  and  Party  ox  Peruvian  Pampa. 


PERU 

ahead  of  me.  Strain  as  I  would  (and  there  is 
no  doubt  I  strained  very  hard)  the  summit  grew 
no  nearer.  In  some  bitterness  of  spirit  I  pictured 
the  other  three  sitting  smoking  their  pipes  on 
the  summit  and  jeering  as  they  looked  down  on 
my  futile  efforts  to  negotiate  the  hill  from  the 
wrong  side;  for  I  made  no  doubt  now  that  they 
had  been  right  and  I  had  been  wrong.  What 
other  conclusion  could  I  come  to?  Finally,  in 
the  shades  of  evening,  fearing  to  be  overtaken 
by  darkness  on  rocks  which  were  becoming  too 
precipitous  to  be  pleasant,  I  gloomily  abandoned 
my  attempt  to  get  any  higher,  and,  in  a  dejected 
frame  of  mind,  commenced  the  descent.  I 
reached  the  hotel  unpleasantly  conscious  of 
failure,  nor  were  my  spirits  raised  by  the  sight 
of  the  other  three  sitting  happy  and  contented 
under  the  verandah. 

"Well?"  Fred  Haggard  inquired,  with  a 
touch,  as  I  thought,  of  derision.  "  Did  you  get 
up?" 

"  No,"  I  replied  shortly.  "  What  was  the 
view  like  from  the  summit?  " 

"Oh,  gorgeous,"  was  the  reply;  "but  the 
finest  sight  was,  of  course,  you,  thousands  of 
feet  below,  trying  to  get  up  the  wrong  way." 

Peals  of  laughter  followed  on  this  speech ;  the 
laughter,  in  fact,  was  so  sustained  that  I  became 
suspicious  that  something  was  in  the  wind. 
Further  inquiry  elicited  the  fact  that  the  others 
had  fared  no  better  than  myself  and  had,  indeed, 
abandoned  the  attempt  as  hopeless  some  time 
a  257 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

before  I  did,  as  they  had  already  been  home  a 
good  half-hour. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  the  summit 
of  the  "  hill  "  which  we  thought  to  scale  in  an 
afternoon  was  10,000  feet  above  where  we  stood, 
but  the  astonishing  clearness  of  the  atmosphere 
brought  it  down  so  close  that  our  ambition  was 
perhaps  excusable.  We  made  no  further  attempts 
to  climb  the  Andes. 

Next  day  we  took  the  train  to  Oroya.  The 
Oroya  railway  is,  I  believe,  admittedly  the  finest 
example  of  railway  engineering  work  in  the  world. 
It  rises  by  a  gradual  incline  of  one  in  thirty-three 
to  an  altitude  of  15,666  feet,  and,  in  those  days, 
ended  at  Oroya,  a  thousand  feet  down  on  the 
far  side  of  the  Cordilleras.  Since  then  it  has 
been  extended  to  Cerro  de  Pasco. 

It  was  amusing  to  watch  the  effect  of  the  climb 
on  the  passengers.  At  10,000  feet  conversation 
was  bright  and  brisk;  cigars  were  being  enjoyed 
and  the  magnificent  scenery  admired.  At  12,000 
feet  conversation,  though  still  sustained,  began 
to  lose  much  of  its  brilliancy.  At  14,000,  cigars 
were  surreptitiously  thrown  away  and  an  ominous 
silence  reigned.  On  nearing  the  summit,  this 
peaceful  silence  was  abruptly  broken,  for  several 
of  the  passengers  rushed  to  the  back  of  the  cars 
and  were  violently  sick.  Personally,  I  had  so 
far  felt  no  particular  discomfort.  That  was  to 
come  later. 

We  slept  at  Oroya  and  next  morning  started 
on  our  hundred-mile  ride  across  the  Peruvian 

258 


PERU 

Pampa :  Fred  Haggard,  young  Merrick,  our 
mining  engineer,  Don  Miguel  de  Bezada,  one 
of  the  joint  owners  of  the  mine,  and  myself. 
Robert  Wilmot  had  returned  to  Lima.  The 
weather  was  sunny  and  beautiful,  but  spoilt  by 
occasional  snow-storms,  which  in  turn  gave  way 
once  more  to  baking  sunshine.  The  scenery  was 
featureless  but  peaceful.  The  Peruvian  Pampa 
is  an  undulating  plateau  covered  with  short, 
springy  turf.  It  is  absolutely  treeless  and  bush- 
less,  but  intersected  by  many  crystal  streams 
and  dotted  with  large  lakes  on  which  we  could 
see  the  wild-fowl  in  their  thousands.  To  north, 
south  and  west  of  us  rose  the  glittering  giant 
peaks  of  the  Andes.  Many  of  them  at  that  time 
were  unmeasured  or,  at  any  rate,  only  approxi- 
mately measured.  I  remarked  on  the  peace 
and  beauty  of  the  scene  to  Don  Miguel,  but  he 
shook  his  head  disgustedly. 

"  It  is  an  accursed  region  of  evil  spirits,"  he 
replied,  crossing  himself. 

I  disagreed  with  him  and  remarked  that  I 
thought  it  exhilarating. 

"  Exhilarating  !  "  he  exclaimed;  "  why,  I  will 
bet  you  a  sol  that  you  cannot  walk  as  far  as  that 
rock  in  front  of  us." 

"  Done  !  "  I  promptly  cried,  and  leaping  off 
my  pony,  led  him  as  far  as  the  rock  indicated. 
I  won  my  sol,  but  I  regretted  my  bet  for  the  rest 
of  that  day  and  for  the  two  days  following.  The 
exertion  required  to  walk  the  short  distance 
necessary  was  almost  unbelievable.     I  remounted 

259 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

my  pony  with  a  violent  headache  which  remained 
with  me  for  the  next  three  days.  By  the  time 
we  reached  Tagasmayo,  our  first  resting-place, 
I  was  a  very  sick  man.  I  "  shooed  "  a  dozen 
hens  off  my  bed,  where  they  were  peacefully 
roosting,  and  dropped  on  to  it  without  even 
removing  my  boots.  My  head  was  like  a  furnace 
and  my  eyes  were  streaming.  A  cup  of  tea  (with- 
out milk)  was  brought  me,  and  I  drained  it  and 
fell  at  once  into  a  heavy  sleep  which  lasted  till 
morning.  Another  cup  of  tea  in  the  morning, 
and  I  mounted  the  dejected  pony  which  was  to 
carry  me  the  thirty-three  miles  to  Junin,  our 
next  halting-place.  That  ride  to  Junin  was  one 
of  the  most  trying  experiences  I  have  ever 
endured.  The  day  was  as  beautiful  as  could  be 
imagined  and,  across  the  dead-flat  Pampa,  Junin 
stood  out  quite  clearly  from  the  moment  of  our 
start.  It  looked  no  more  than  five  miles  distant, 
but  hour  after  hour  we  rode  and  still  this  elusive 
village  grew  no  nearer.  Three  miles  an  hour  was 
the  best  the  ponies  could  do.  If  you  press  them 
beyond  that — in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  have 
been  bred  in  that  rarefied  atmosphere — they 
bleed  at  the  nose  and  fall  down.  We  were  denied 
the  solace  of  smoking,  for  no  pipe  will  bum  at 
15,000  feet.  On  and  on  we  toiled  in  funereal 
silence.  If  I  had  been  alone,  I  have  no  hesita- 
tion in  saying  that  I  should  have  lain  down  under 
a  rock  and,  if  necessary,  died  without  any  regret. 
I  felt,  in  fact,  that  there  was  nothing  I  should 
enjoy  so  much  as  death.     All  the  rest  of  the 

260 


PERU 

party  were  bad,  but  none  so  bad  as  I  was,  for 
no  one  else  had  been  fool  enough  to  walk  three 
hundred  yards  for  a  bet.  Don  Miguel,  when  he 
left  Oroya,  had  been  a  cheery  little  man,  with  a 
smooth,  rosy  face  like  an  apple.  His  face  was 
now  like  a  medlar,  lined  with  a  hundred  wrinkles. 
His  eyes  streamed  constantly,  as  indeed  did  all 
our  eyes.  No  one  spoke.  In  fact  I  may  say 
that,  from  end  to  end  of  our  hundred-mile  ride 
across  the  Pampa,  no  one  of  us  spoke  except 
under  necessity.  We  did  not  feel  like  speaking. 
However,  all  things  come  to  an  end,  and  even- 
tually we  reached  Junin  after  a  ride  of  some  eleven 
hours.  Once  again  I  tumbled  on  to  my  bed  (I 
should  have  been  sorry  to  tumble  into  it)  after 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  fell  instantly  into  a  heavy 
sleep. 

Next  morning  I  was  so  bad  that  there  was 
some  discussion  as  to  whether  I  had  not  best  be 
left  at  Junin.  I  insisted,  however,  on  continuing. 
Death,  I  felt,  was  infinitely  preferable  to  Junin. 
Haggard  and  Merrick  between  them  lifted  me  on 
to  my  pony,  for  I  was  almost  too  weak  to  stand, 
and  we  continued  our  melancholy  ride.  Hope, 
however,  the  greatest  stimulant  on  earth,  was  in 
my  breast.  I  knew  that,  if  I  could  remain  in 
the  saddle,  night  would  see  me  5000  feet  nearer 
the  sea-level  and,  beyond  that,  I  cared  for  nothing. 
After  riding  for  about  three  hours  we  began  to 
descend.  With  every  hundred  feet  we  dropped, 
life  and  the  joy  of  living  came  back  to  me. 
Indeed,   even  while   on  the  undulating  Pampa 

261 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

itself,  every  hundred  feet  that  we  rose  or  fell 
made  a  perceptible  difference  to  my  comfort. 

About  5  p.m.,  to  my  unspeakable  relief,  we 
reached  the  hospitable  abode  of  Don  Vincente 
de  Bezada,  who  was  to  entertain  us  during  our 
inspection  of  the  mine.  Don  Vincente  was  a 
splendid  specimen  of  the  Spanish  hidalgo,  with  a 
fine  presence  and  a  delightful  charm  of  manner, 
and  the  entertainment  which  he  afforded  us  was 
not  only  excellent  in  itself,  but  to  myself  extremely 
welcome,  for  no  food  had  passed  my  lips  since 
we  had  left  Oroya  three  days  before. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  extraordinary  effect  of 
high  altitudes  on  the  constitution,  I  may  mention 
that,  on  that  same  day,  as  soon  as  we  had  washed 
and  eaten,  I  went  in  the  evening  for  a  long 
solitary  walk.  I  could  hardly  realise  that,  only 
that  very  morning,  I  had  been  too  weak  to  mount 
my  pony  without  assistance. 

The  much-dreaded  "  Soroche,"  or  mountain 
fever,  is  always  worst  on  the  occasion  of  its  first 
visitation.  Every  subsequent  attack  is  milder. 
Residents  in  Lima,  however,  even  though  they 
may  have  crossed  the  Pampa  before,  contemplate 
a  renewal  of  the  experience  with  the  utmost  dread. 
Don  Miguel,  who  had  often  crossed  before,  had 
gone  through  a  three  weeks'  strict  dietary  training 
before  he  accompanied  us. 

The  country  in  which  our  mine  lay  was  the 
"  10,000  foot  "  country,  pretty,  hilly  and  tame, 
with  a  strong  resemblance  to  Cumberland.  Grass 
hills,  clothed  here  and  there  with  scrub,  fenced 

262 


PERU 

in  clear  streams  tumbling  down  to  the  Amazon, 
and  looking  as  if  they  had  been  specially  created 
by  Providence  for  the  harbourage  of  trout.  Most 
of  our  common  English  birds,  in  rather  gaudier 
liveries,  flitted  about  among  the  bushes.  The 
ubiquitous  sparrow  was  of  course  there,  in  cease- 
less evidence,  as  were  also  the  chaffinch,  the 
blackbird  and  the  robin,  all  a  little  disguised, 
but  still  unmistakable  for  what  they  were.  The 
country  was  peacefully  attractive  and  the  climate 
like  that  of  our  spring  at  its  best.  Of  ploughed 
land  there  was  hardly  any  trace,  for,  though  the 
country  was  clearly  capable  of  growing  cereals  to 
any  extent,  the  impossibility  of  transport  to  any 
big  market  was  sufficient  to  strangle  all  agricul- 
tural enterprise.  Now  that  the  railroad  has  come 
to  Cerro  de  Pasco,  it  is  possible  there  may  be  a 
little  more  cultivation,  but  even  that  is  doubtful, 
for  Cerro  de  Pasco  itself  is  as  inaccessible  from 
Chuquitambo,  where  we  were  staying,  as  the  top 
of  Ben  Nevis  is  from  Banavie. 

It  is  a  safe  prophecy,  however,  that  some  day, 
in  the  far  future,  the  interior  of  Peru  will  be  one 
of  the  great  food  producers  of  the  world.  Its 
vast  extent,  coupled  with  its  unlimited  water 
supply  and  the  ease  with  which  climate  can  be 
regulated  by  altitude,  give  it  advantages  which 
no  other  country  can  rival.  From  10,000  to  7000 
feet  cereals  of  all  kinds  can  be  grown;  from 
7000  to  4000  tea  and  coffee,  and  from  4000  to 
2000  cocoa,  sugar  and  cotton.  Below  the  last- 
named  level  lie  the  poisonous  forks  of  the  Amazon, 

263 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

well  adapted  for  rubber-growing,  but  not  likely 
to  be  habitable  for  white  men  for  many  a  century 
to  come.  At  present  the  interior  of  Peru  gives 
the  world  at  large  but  little  in  the  way  of  food, 
being  shut  off  from  civilisation  by  the  Andes  on 
the  west  and  by  the  Amazon  jungle  on  the  east. 
The  development  of  the  country  by  railroads, 
however,  is  a  perfectly  simple  matter.  The 
supreme  difficulty  was  bridged  when  Meggs  built 
the  Oroya  railway.  The  rest  would  be  child's 
play  by  comparison.  The  decline  of  the  Andes 
is  as  gentle  on  the  east  as  it  is  terrifying  and 
precipitous  on  the  west.  If  England  or  America 
took  Peru  in  hand,  it  would  not  only  become  one 
of  the  greatest  food  and  mineral  producers  in  the 
world,  but  also  one  of  the  most  perfect  residential 
countries  for  colonists.  At  present  it  labours 
under  two  great  disadvantages  :  its  inaccessibility 
and  the  total  absence  of  any  authoritative  govern- 
ment. The  Peruvian  Government  concerns  itself 
very  little  with  what  happens  east  of  the  Andes. 
How,  indeed,  can  it  be  expected  to  repress  out- 
breaks and  quell  disorder  when  it  has  no  means 
of  transporting  its  troops  or  police?  Below  the 
"  4000  foot  "  level  many  of  the  Peruvian  natives 
are  dangerous  and  unrestrained  by  any  law. 
Their  priests  exercise  absolute  control,  and,  in  a 
desire  to  keep  this  control,  they  incite  the  natives 
to  kill  all  strangers  who  have  the  temerity  to 
come  and  spy  out  the  land.  While  I  was  in 
Lima,  I  met  a  man  named  Hayward  who  had 
just  returned  from  an  expedition  below  the  "  4000 

264 


PERU 

foot "  level.  He  was  the  sole  survivor  of  the 
expedition,  his  four  companions  having  been 
mobbed  and  killed  by  the  natives. 

At  Chuquitambo  the  natives  were  not  only 
civil  but  obsequious  to  the  point  of  effacing 
themselves  in  the  dust  before  every  European 
that  they  encountered  on  the  road.  The  Peruvian 
cholo  of  to-day  is  a  placid  person  of  the  Esquimaux 
type,  with  a  round,  plum-coloured,  hairless  face. 
To  my  eyes  they  were  all  as  exactly  alike  as  a 
flock  of  sheep,  but  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  they 
are  able  to  detect  differences  among  themselves. 

We  bought  the  mine,  as  indeed  we  could  hardly 
avoid  doing  in  face  of  the  genial  hospitality  of 
our  host,  Don  Vincente.  It  is  satisfactory  to 
be  able  to  record  that  after  several  years  of 
uncertainty,  the  mine  has  at  length  proved  a 
conspicuous  success,  and  is  to-day  producing 
considerable  quantities  of  gold. 

I  looked  forward  with  unspeakable  dread  to 
our  return  journey,  but  was  pleasantly  surprised 
to  find  that  I  was  not  nearly  so  badly  affected  as 
before.  At  Junin  we  even  found  energy  enough 
to  stroll  about  and  examine  the  place.  Junin  is 
a  village  of  mud  huts,  remarkable  only  for  its 
dirt  and  its  church.  The  latter  is  a  long,  low, 
white-washed  building  with  a  thatched  roof.  It 
looks  more  like  a  cow-shed  than  a  church  on  the 
outside,  but  inside  it  fairly  makes  the  stranger 
gasp  with  astonishment.  It  boasts  no  fewer  than 
three  (I  think  there  were  four)  carved  Florentine 
altar-pieces,  standing  ten  feet  high  and  beautifully 

265 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

decorated — after  their  kind — in  red  and  gold,  blue 
and  silver,  etc.  The  old  Conquistadores  were 
certainly  very  wonderful  fellows.  Pizarro  must 
have  abandoned  his  ships  at  Colon  and  built  an 
entirely  new  fleet  at  Panama.  This  in  itself  must 
have  been  a  colossal  undertaking.  Then,  from 
Panama  to  Callao,  he  had  to  face  the  ceaseless 
S.E.  trade  winds  for  1000  miles  !  How  he  did  it 
no  man  knows.  The  conquest  of  the  Incas  was 
in  itself  no  doubt  a  trifling  matter,  for  they  were 
not  a  fighting  race.  His  chief  claim  to  admiration 
is  over  his  conquest  of  physical  difficulties.  The 
transport  of  those  Junin  altar-pieces  over  the 
Andes,  in  that  rarefied  atmosphere,  stands  out  as 
an  amazing  achievement  and  one  that  seems  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  results  obtained.  Why 
decorate  a  mud  village  nearly  15,000  feet  above 
sea-level  with  these  gorgeous  examples  of  six- 
teenth-century Florentine  work? 

The  Peruvian  Pampa  is  sparsely  inhabited  by 
cholos,  lamas  and  sheep,  none  of  whom  seem  to 
experience  any  inconvenience  from  the  altitude. 
Their  organisms  have,  no  doubt,  in  the  course  of 
many  centuries,  adapted  themselves  to  the  con- 
ditions. If  the  natives  are  brought  down  to 
the  sea-level  they  experience  exactly  the  same 
symptoms  as  we  do  when  we  rise  to  their 
heights — violent  headaches,  sickness  and  running 
at  the  eyes. 

Apart  from  other  miseries,  the  track  across 
the  Pampa  is  made  hideous  by  the  constant  sight 
of  dead   and   dying   lamas   and   donkeys.     The 

266 


PERU 

Peruvians — in  common  with  most  of  the  South 
American  semi-Spanish  natives — are  absolutely 
callous  with  regard  to  the  sufferings  of  animals. 
It  is  not  so  much  that  they  are  wantonly  cruel; 
they  are  simply  indifferent.  Much  of  their  cruelty 
comes  from  stupidity  and  the  rest  from  traditional 
custom.  All  the  copper  from  the  Cerro  de  Pasco 
mines  was  in  those  days  taken  across  the  Pampa 
to  Oroya  on  the  backs  of  lamas  and  donkeys, 
who  carried  in  stores  on  the  return  journey.  A 
lama  at  those  heights  can  carry  70  lbs.  and  no 
more.  During  this  hundred-mile  traverse,  certain 
lamas  would  go  sick  and  drop.  Their  burdens 
would  then  be  shifted  to  other  lamas  and  the 
sick  beast  left  to  die.  Under  the  extra  weight, 
other  lamas  would  then,  one  after  the  other,  drop 
and  be  left  to  die.  One  contractor  that  I  spoke 
to  told  me  piteously  that  he  never  crossed  the 
Pampa  without  losing  at  least  six  lamas.  I  sug- 
gested the  obvious  expedient  of  taking  with  him 
half  a  dozen  led  lamas  to  take  the  burdens  of 
those  that  went  sick.  He  objected  that  this 
would  be  a  great  expense  as  well  as  quite  contrary 
to  custom.  I  could  not  make  him  see  that  there 
was  less  expense  in  taking  with  him  spare  lamas 
than  in  losing  six  on  every  journey.  He  was 
polite  but  quite  obdurate.  British  and  American 
residents  in  Peru  told  me  that  Peruvian  customs 
with  regard  to  animals  were  many  hundreds  of 
years  old  and  were  as  unalterable  as  the  laws  of 
the  Medes  and  Persians.  No  argument  could  induce 
the  natives  to  change  the  customs  of  centuries. 

267 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

On  arrival  at  Oroya,  we  found  Mr.  Impett,  the 
manager  of  the  Oroya  railway,  awaiting  us,  and 
together  we  journeyed  by  the  train  as  far  as  the 
summit,  where,  according  to  previous  arrange- 
ment, he  had  in  readiness  for  us  a  running  trolley 
containing  four  seats  and  a  very  strong  lever 
brake.  Our  baggage  went  on  in  the  train,  while 
we  transferred  ourselves  to  the  trolley  which  was 
destined  to  carry  us  the  rest  of  the  way  to  Lima. 
Apart  from  all  other  considerations,  the  adventure 
was  interesting  from  the  fact  that  nowhere  else 
in  the  world  can  a  trolley  travel  106  miles  by 
gravitation  alone.  Such,  however,  was  our  pur- 
pose. After  we  had  given  the  train  half  an  hour's 
start,  and  protected  our  faces  with  thick  veils, 
the  wedge  was  kicked  away  from  in  front  of  our 
wheels  and  we  instantly  started  gliding  forwards 
with  an  ever-increasing  speed.  Impett  took 
control  of  the  brake  and  therefore  of  our  speed, 
so  that  the  rest  of  us  were  at  liberty  to  give  as 
much  attention  to  the  grandeur  of  the  stupendous 
scenery  through  which  we  passed  as  our  thick 
veils  permitted  of. 

The  relief  of  descent  and  the  sense  of  returning 
vitality  as  more  oxygen  found  its  way  to  our 
starved  lungs  added  materially  to  our  powers  of 
enjoyment  as  we  skirted  the  giant  precipices,  or 
spanned  the  fathomless  abysses  of  the  Cordilleras. 
It  was  difficult  to  realise  that  the  yellow,  snowless 
peaks,  to  which  we  craned  our  necks  as  we  glided 
along,  were  many  thousands  of  feet  higher  than 
the  ice-encrusted  giants  of  the  Rockies  that  had 

268 


PERU 

so  awed  our  senses  the  year  before;  but  we  were 
helped  to  the  belief  by  the  memory  of  our 
depressing  climb  at  Chosica.  The  permanent 
snow-line  in  the  Andes  is  about  18,500  feet,  and 
peaks  of  lesser  magnitude  show  up  from  base  to 
summit  a  uniform  dull  yellow.  They  are  abso- 
lutely bare  of  vegetation  and  have  the  appearance 
of  being  built  of  sand.  They  are  unspeakably 
grand,  but  more  terrifying  than  beautiful  on 
account  of  their  nakedness.  Over  every  valley, 
between  the  pointed  yellow  peaks,  hovers  a 
motionless  condor  vulture,  looking  like  a  kestrel 
in  spite  of  its  twelve  feet  of  wing-span.  In  the 
lowest  cleft  of  every  valley  roars  a  foaming 
torrent,  along  the  edge  of  which  are  trees  and  a 
wild  growth  of  heliotrope,  which  is  the  common 
Peruvian  weed. 

About  an  hour  after  leaving  the  summit,  we 
very  nearly  ran  into  the  train,  which  had  been 
derailed  by  a  rock  avalanche,  but  which  was 
hidden  from  our  view  by  a  sharp  corner.  It  was 
that  same  sharp  corner  which  had  prevented  the 
driver  of  the  train  from  seeing  that  the  track  in 
front  of  him  was  covered  with  rocks  and  stones. 
As  the  track  was,  as  usual,  cut  out  of  the  side  of 
a  precipice,  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  get  our 
trolley  past  the  train,  and  we  had  to  wait  in 
patience  till  the  jacks  had  done  their  work  and 
the  train  continued  its  careful  career.  The  worst 
of  it  was  that  our  pace  had  now  to  be  restricted 
to  the  pace  of  the  train,  which  was  far  too  sedate 
for  our  tastes.     At  Matucana,   however,   which 

269 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

was  the  half-way  house,  both  train  and  trolley 
came  to  a  halt  for  half  an  hour,  while  those  on 
board  refreshed  the  inner  man  with  such  fare  as 
the  station  provided;  and,  while  we  were  so 
engaged,  Impett  had  the  trolley  taken  round  and 
placed  in  front  of  the  train. 

Just  as  we  were  about  to  reseat  ourselves, 
Impett  turned  to  me  and  said  :  "  Would  you 
like  to  drive  the  rest  of  the  way  ?  "  There  was 
nothing,  of  course,  that  at  the  moment  I  desired 
so  much,  though  my  natural  diffidence  had  so  far 
prevented  my  making  the  suggestion ;  so,  with  a 
brief  nod  of  acquiescence  and  with  a  doubtless 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  conceal  the  elation  I  felt, 
I  seated  myself  next  the  brake,  signed  to  the 
cholo  to  remove  the  wedge,  and  off  we  started  on 
the  second  stage  of  our  journey,  the  two  passen- 
gers in  rear  looking,  I  fancied,  a  little  pale  at  the 
thought  of  my  amateur  guidance. 

Now  the  driving  of  a  trolley  on  the  Oroya 
railway  consists  solely  in  the  alternate  application 
and  release  of  the  brake.  The  gradient  through- 
out is  a  uniform  gradient  of  three  per  cent.,  which 
is  sufficient  to  give  the  trolley  any  speed  required 
up  to  a  hundred  miles  an  hour.  The  nature  of 
the  track,  however,  forbids  anything  in  the  nature 
of  excessive  speed,  except  at  short  intervals.  It 
is  not  merely  that  it  is  cut  out  of  the  edge  of 
precipices  throughout  its  entire  length,  but  it 
also  twists  and  turns  round  so  many  corners  that 
it  is  very  seldom  that  a  clear  view  is  obtainable 
for  any  great  distance  ahead.     Such  a  view  is, 

270 


PERU 

however,  most  essential  to  safety,  for  rock 
avalanches  are  perpetually  falling  on  the  track, 
and,  though  men  are  posted  at  regular  intervals 
all  along  the  line  to  cope  with  these  avalanches, 
and  to  warn  the  trains  if  they  approach  before 
the  debris  is  cleared  away,  we  knew  that  such 
precautions  would  be  quite  inadequate  to  save  us 
if  we  rounded  a  corner  at  full  speed  and  found 
rocks  just  ahead  of  us  on  the  track.  The  derailing 
of  the  train  above  Matucana  was  quite  sufficient 
to  prove  to  us  that  there  was  no  real  safety 
except  in  so  sober  a  pace  that  a  dead  halt  could 
be  assured  of  in  fifty  yards.  This  was  the  regular 
train's  invariable  policy,  and  though,  in  the  par- 
ticular case  cited,  it  had  not  been  able  to  pull  up 
in  time  to  avoid  being  derailed,  it  had  evidently 
pulled  up  quick  enough  to  avoid  being  hurled 
over  the  precipice,  as  would  inevitably  have 
happened  had  its  pace  been  less  restrained. 
Another  danger  was  to  be  found  in  the  innumer- 
able short  tunnels,  in  which  it  was  the  incon- 
venient habit  of  the  mountain  goats  to  shelter 
from  the  sun. 

My  endeavour  was  to  steer  the  middle  course 
between  blind  recklessness  and  creeping  prudence. 
Occasionally  one  could  see  ahead  for  half  a  mile 
or  so,  and  then,  with  a  glorious  sense  of  exhilara- 
tion, we  would  shoot  through  the  air  for  a  time 
without  any  brake-restraint,  till  the  next  blind 
curve  would  approach,  when  caution  once  more 
had  to  be  called  into  play.  When  we  ultimately 
stepped   off   the   trolley   at   Lima,    I   turned   to 

271 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

Impett  and  remarked  with  some  pride  :  "  Well, 
I  think  I  did  the  second  half  in  quicker  time  than 
you  did  the  first." 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted,  with  a  sudden  gleam  in 
his  eye,  "  you  did.  Would  you  like  to  come 
down  again  with  me  to-morrow  and  I'll  show 
you  what  /  call  fast  driving?  " 

I  politely  declined  this  kind  offer.  Trolley- 
running  on  the  Oroya  railway  has  been  respon- 
sible for  many  fatal  accidents,  as  to  which  we 
had  been  furnished  with  full  and  gruesome  details. 
We  had  also  had  it  from  many  quarters  that 
Impett  was  by  far  the  most  reckless  trolley-runner 
in  Peru.  The  sobriety  of  his  pace  during  the 
earlier  stages  of  our  descent  had  no  doubt  been 
solely  due  to  consideration  for  our  untried  nerves, 
and  the  gleam  in  his  eye  when  he  offered  to  show 
me  what  he  could  do  in  emergency  was  quite 
sufficient  to  determine  my  line  of  action. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  Peruvians  hate  us  so. 
Much  of  this  hatred  can  be  traced  back  to  an 
unfortunate  occasion  on  which  our  representative 
in  Lima  paid  an  official  visit  to  the  President  in 
knickerbockers  and  shooting-boots.  This  was, 
not  unnaturally,  construed  into  a  deliberate  insult 
to  the  Republic,  and  has  never  been  forgotten  or 
forgiven.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that 
altogether  apart  from  the  knickerbocker  incident, 
the  demeanour  of  the  English  residents  towards 
the  Peruvians  is  not  such  as  to  inspire  love. 
The  Spanish  Peruvian  is  a  great  aristocrat,  with 
an  ancestry  which,  in  many  cases,  dates  back  to 

272 


PERU 

Pizarro.  He  and  his  kind  have  never  crossed 
with  the  natives  of  the  land  they  conquered, 
whom  indeed  they  regard  as  Uttle  better  than 
dirt,  and,  consequently,  they  still  retain  not  only 
their  pure  Spanish  blood,  but  their  Spanish  pride 
of  race  as  well.  They  are  not  of  the  build  to  sit 
down  tamely  under  an  assumption  of  superiority 
on  the  part  of  the  commercial  class  of  a  foreign 
country. 

We  had  a  comical  illustration  of  our  unpopu- 
larity in  Peru  on  the  occasion  of  a  certain  visit 
to  the  cinema  theatre  in  Lima.  It  was  during 
the  Boer  war,  and  we  were  given  a  representation 
of  the  battle  of  Spion  Kop.  The  British  army, 
consisting  of  about  twenty  fat  swarthy  men,  in 
white  duck  uniforms  with  black  belts  (obviously 
the  Lima  police),  were  seen  clambering  painfully 
up  a  steep  slope  (obviously  in  the  Andes)  dragging 
a  toy  cannon  behind  them.  Suddenly,  from 
behind  a  wall,  uprose  three  ragged-looking  men 
with  pitchforks  and  two  women  armed  with  mops, 
who  fell  upon  the  British  army  and — amidst 
deafening  cheers  from  the  Lima  audience — hurled 
it  headlong  down  the  slope  of  the  mountain. 

In  one  particular  respect  the  Spanish  Peruvians 
are  advanced  far  beyond  the  parent  stock  across 
the  Atlantic,  and  that  is  in  the  matter  of  bull- 
fights. A  bull-fight  in  Spain  is  one  of  the  most 
unsporting,  clumsy,  debasing  and  beastly  spec- 
tacles imaginable.  A  bull-fight  in  Lima,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  a  really  beautiful  and  artistic  per- 
formance. The  picadors  are  mounted  on  exquisite 
T  278 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

little  thoroughbreds,  for  which  large  prices  are 
given,  and  which  twist  about  and  dodge  the  bull's 
rushes  with  all  the  agility  of  a  polo  pony.  Any 
picador  whose  pony  is,  in  the  smallest  degree, 
ripped  by  the  bull's  horns  is  hissed  out  of  the 
arena.  The  bull,  of  course,  is  killed  by  the 
matador  in  the  end,  as  in  Spain,  but  there  is 
none  of  the  brutal  mutilation  of  horses  which  so 
sickens  anyone  with  the  instincts  of  the  sports- 
man who  has  to  sit  and  look  on  at  a  bull-fight 
in  Spain. 


274 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THALASSA,    THALASSA 

I  THINK  I  must  have  been  born  with  the  cry 
of  the  Ten  Thousand  in  my  mouth,  for,  from  the 
moment  when  my  infant  fingers  first  fed  ungrate- 
ful sea-anemones  with  Uttle  bits  of  seaweed,  the 
sea  in  all  its  moods  has  beckoned  me.  To  be 
on  it,  near  it  or  in  it— more  particularly  in  it — has 
always  seemed  to  me  more  to  be  desired  than 
gold,  yea,  than  much  fine  gold.  In  all  latitudes, 
therefore,  to  which  pleasure  or  duly  Las  drawn 
me,  the  exploration  of  the  local  waves  has  been 
my  first  concern.  The  trouble  generally  is  that, 
where  the  water  is  warm,  there  are  sharks,  and, 
where  there  are  no  sharks,  the  water  is  uninviting. 
The  Mediterranean  is,  of  course,  an  exception 
to  this  rule,  but  even  this  is  now  beginning  to  be 
invaded  by  sharks  which  find  their  way  in  through 
the  Canal. 

The  most  perfect  bathing-place  I  have  ever 
come  across  is  at  Port  Antonio,  Jamaica,  where 
a  large  and  deep  lagoon  is  enclosed  by  a  coral 
reef  which  is  impassable  to  sharks.  Here  the 
water  is  so  warm  that  bathers  may  swim  about 
the  live-long  day  in  lazy  comfort  and  without 
fear  of  losing  a  leg.  A  big  hat,  however,  is  a 
necessity  on  account  of  the  sun. 

275 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

The  bay  of  Panama  would  be  an  ideal  bathing- 
place  were  it  not  for  the  sharks  and  crabs.  The 
crabs  on  the  mainland  are  black,  to  match  the 
rocks,  which  are  also  black,  and  they  run  quicker 
than  any  crabs  I  have  ever  met  (or  rather  avoided). 
Fred  Haggard,  who  shared  my  antipathy  to 
crabs,  always  declared  that  the  Panama  crabs 
could  run  straight,  which  no  decent  crab  should 
be  able  to  do.  They  scared  us  when  bathing 
even  more  than  the  sharks,  for  they  were  much 
more  aggressive,  and  were  not  in  the  least 
frightened  of  us,  which  I  believe  the  sharks  were. 
We  only  bathed  once  from  the  mainland  at 
Panama,  and  then  without  any  guardian  boat. 
Fred  Haggard,  Robert  Wilmot  and  I  swam  out 
just  far  enough  to  feel  brave  and  then,  turning 
round,  made  for  shore  with  a  little  more  speed, 
I  think,  than  was,  strictly  speaking,  dignified,  and 
with  a  good  deal  of  superfluous  splashing  of  the 
feet.  We  were  all  swimming  in  line  when  suddenly 
a  simultaneous  yell  went  up  to  heaven  from  three 
throats.  We  had  swum  into  a  bed  of  thick 
tenacious  seaweed  which  had  grabbed  us  all  by 
the  legs,  and  of  course  we  thought  that  sharks 
had  hold  of  us. 

After  that  we  bathed  from  the  Pearl  islands, 
which  were  infinitely  more  attractive  than  the 
mainland  and  much  closer  to  our  ship.  Our  only 
object  in  going  to  Panama  had  been  to  try  to  buy 
Panama  hats,  which — curiously  enough — we  were 
not  able  to  do.  There  were  none.  It  appears 
that  the  real  Panama  hats  never  find  their  way 

276 


THALASSA,    THALASSA 

to  Panama.  They  are  all  made  at  a  place  called 
Paita  in  Peru,  where  women  sit  in  the  sea  and 
plait  them  under  water.  The  hats  are  then  all 
shipped  direct  to  Europe. 

We  were  held  up  for  some  ten  days  at  Panama, 
owing  to  an  unforeseen  delay  in  the  connection 
from  San  Francisco.  During  these  ten  days  we 
remained  on  the  good  ship  Aconcagua  in  prefer- 
ence to  going  to  the  only  hotel  which  at  that  date 
offered  hospitality  to  visitors  in  the  town.  We 
were  anchored  some  six  miles  from  the  mainland 
and  close  to  the  Pearl  island  group,  and  every 
day  we  would  row  in  one  of  the  ship's  boats  to 
one  or  another  of  these  lovely  little  islands  and 
bathe,  keeping  the  boat  always  between  us  and  the 
open  sea.  We  could  often  see  the  dorsal  fin  of 
a  shark  slowly  cutting  the  water  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  boat,  but  although,  at  first,  this  gave 
us  a  certain  feeling  of  unrest,  we  soon  got  used 
to  it,  but  of  course  always  took  care  to  keep  in 
comparatively  shallow  water. 

Apart  from  the  bathing,  the  islands  were  most 
interesting  to  explore.  They  are  inhabited  by 
pure  Indians  of  a  very  handsome  type  whose 
main  industry  is  the  culture  of  pineapples. 

We  did  not  find  the  natives  very  sociable. 
On  one  occasion,  when  Fred  Haggard  and  I  were 
accompanied  by  Mons.  J.  Henessey  and  the 
Comte  de  Vielle  Castel,  we  ventured  to  pass  the 
time  of  day  to  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  island  who 
was  engaged  in  pine-culture. 

*'  Fine  day,  Jenny,"  one  of  our  party  remarked. 

277 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

The  lady  responded  with  what  the  books  term 
a  dazzHng  and  tooth-displaying  smile.  Such  of 
the  island  gentlemen,  however,  as  were  working 
in  the  neighbourhood  did  not  smile  at  all,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  began  to  gather  round  us  with 
very  hostile  looks  and  with  voluble  comments 
on  our  behaviour  which  it  was  perhaps  fortunate 
that  we  did  not  understand.  Very  soon  a  small 
crowd  had  collected,  brandishing  fists  and  agri- 
cultural implements  in  such  very  threatening 
style  that  we  thought  it  best  to  beat  a  dignified 
retreat  towards  our  boat.  They  pursued  us  to 
the  very  water's  edge  and,  when  we  were  fairly 
under  weigh,  indulged  in  such  significant  panto- 
mime as  to  their  intentions  towards  us  that  we 
decided  that  we  would  be  safer  in  the  future  with 
sharks,  or  even  with  barracoutas,  than  with  them, 
and  we  bathed  from  that  island  no  more.  No 
doubt  they  had  at  some  time  had  trouble  with 
cads  from  some  ship  in  the  bay  and  were  unable 
to  appreciate  the  strict  conventionality  of  our 
British  comments  on  the  nature  of  the  weather. 

Thereafter  we  bathed  from  a  smaller  and  more 
distant  island.  I  had  a  most  exciting  hunt  on 
this  island  for  a  humming-bird's  nest  which  was 
very  evidently  situated  in  a  biggish  isolated  bush, 
but  without  success.  I  was  divided  between  a 
desire  to  find  the  nest  and  the  fear  of  destroying 
it  in  tearing  apart  the  clumps  of  foliage,  and,  in 
the  end,  I  had  to  abandon  the  hunt.  The  two 
parent  birds — very  small  and  of  a  brilliant  metallic 
blue — showed  no  trace  of  fear  of  me,  but  kept 

278 


THALASSA,    THALASSA 

buzzing    round    my    head    in    most    pugilistic 
fashion. 

Humming-birds  are  the  most  fascinating  little 
objects  to  watch.  They  do  not  fly  like  birds,  but 
like  bees — perfectly  straight  and  with  incredible 
speed.  When  attracted  by  a  flower,  they  will 
hover  in  front  of  it  perfectly  motionless  except 
for  the  beat  of  their  wings,  which  is  so  rapid  as 
to  be  invisible,  and  which  produces  the  faint 
humming  sound  from  which  they  derive  their 
name.  Sometimes,  while  hovering,  they  will 
make  a  perpendicular  rise  of  twenty  feet  or  so  and 
then  fall  back  to  their  original  position,  and  all 
so  quickly  that  the  eye  can  hardly  follow.  Like 
bees,  too,  they  seem  to  have  no  perception  of 
the  presence  of  man.  At  any  rate,  they  show 
no  symptom  of  shyness. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  British  Columbia 
can  boast  three  varieties  of  humming-birds — a 
black  one,  a  reddish  one  and  another  whose 
distinctive  colouring  I  have  forgotten.  They  are 
all  three  rather  larger  than  the  South  American 
varieties.  I  have  seen  the  black  ones  at  Rossland, 
B.C.,  actually  hovering  over  the  snow — not  of 
course  in  mid- winter,  but  in  April,  when  the 
violets  and  crocuses  force  their  way  happily 
through  the  thin  layer  of  snow  that  is  left  and 
form  a  brilliantly- coloured  carpet  with  a  white 
ground.  What  happens  to  these  British  Colum- 
bian humming-birds  in  mid-winter,  when  Rossland 
is  four  feet  under  snow,  I  have  never  been  able 
to  learn. 

279 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

The  best  places  in  South  America  that  we 
struck  for  humming-birds  were  the  Ecuador 
forests,  which  are  ultra-tropical  in  their  vegetation 
as  well  as  in  their  steamy  and  oppressive  heat. 
Almost  more  interesting  than  the  humming- 
birds were  the  butterflies — ^very  large  and  of  the 
brilliant  metallic  hues  which  museums  have  made 
so  familiar.  These  gorgeous  insects,  instead  of 
fluttering,  like  our  domestic  British  butterflies, 
within  confidential  reach  of  the  collector's  net, 
fly  with  the  rapidity  of  a  snipe  and,  even  on 
smooth  ground,  would  certainly  leave  far  behind 
the  fleetest  entomologist  that  ever  wore  spectacles. 
In  the  dense  tropical  jungle,  which  is  their  habitat, 
it  would,  of  course,  be  impossible  to  pursue  them 
for  five  yards.  How  the  professors  secure  them  I 
cannot  say.  I  can  only  imagine  that  they  must  be 
trapped  by  some  species  of  sticky  bait  smeared  on 
the  tree-trunks.  I  believe  that  the  scientific  name 
for  these  fast-flying  butterflies  is  Ornithoptera. 

The  small  island  to  which  we  were  driven  by 
the  menacing  attitude  of  the  natives  was  not  so 
good  for  bathing  as  the  large  one,  which  boasted 
a  horse-shoe  bay,  across  the  mouth  of  which  our 
boat  could  patrol  up  and  down  to  keep  the  sharks 
out.  The  smaller  island  had  no  such  bay,  and 
we  consequently  felt  less  secure.  The  rest  of  the 
group  was  too  far  distant  to  have  any  value  for 
regular  bathing. 

I  think  there  is  very  little  doubt  that  the 
shark  danger  is  greatly  exaggerated.  I  once  knew 
a  certain  Captain  Montgomery  in  the  Navy  who 

280 


THALASSA,    THALASSA 

had  an  amazing  life-saving  record.  He  was  a 
magnificent  swimmer  and  would  go  overboard  to 
the  rescue  in  any  waters.  He  assured  me  that  he 
had  swum  at  times  in  seas  that  were  infested  with 
sharks  and  that  they  had  taken  no  manner  of 
notice  of  him.  One  has  the  evidence  of  one's 
own  eyes,  too,  at  places  like  Kingston,  Jamaica, 
where  small  naked  boys  will  dive  all  day  long 
after  sixpences  thrown  into  the  water.  On  one 
occasion  when  I  was  at  Kingston  the  best  diver 
was  a  boy  who  was  nearly  white,  and  one  could 
follow  the  movements  of  his  body,  as  he  went 
wriggling  down  to  the  bottom  with  the  greatest 
distinctness.  And  yet  I  have  never  heard  of 
these  boys  being  taken  by  sharks,  although  sharks 
are  known  to  swarm  round  the  ships.  At  the 
same  time,  there  undoubtedly  are,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  certain  spots  where  the  sharks 
are  very  wicked.  One  of  these  is,  of  course, 
Sydney  Harbour,  and  another  is  Suez. 

When  I  was  at  Suez  it  was  very  hot  and  I  had 
an  overpowering  desire  to  bathe.  The  sea  was 
as  smooth  as  glass  and  of  a  marvellous  trans- 
parency. Never  have  I  seen  any  sea  that  looked 
so  inviting.  I  was  assured,  however,  that  to 
bathe  was  to  court  certain  death.  Only  three 
days  before  an  Arab's  legs  had  been  taken  off 
below  the  knee  by  a  shark  which  attacked  him 
while  he  was  standing  on  the  steps  that  led  down 
into  the  sea  washing  his  clothes.  Residents  at 
Suez,  when  they  wish  to  bathe,  have  to  take  the 
train  to  the  Isniailia  salt  lakes,  on  the  surface  of 

381 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

which  a  man  may  lie  at  full  length  and  read  a 
book,  so  great  is  their  density. 

One  of  the  best  bathing-places  in  Europe  is  at 
the  Piraeus,  as  Byron  discovered  over  a  hundred 
years  ago.  Modern  bathers  are  accommodated 
by  wooden  steps  which  lead  down  into  the  water 
from  a  platform  on  to  which  open  a  long  row  of 
bathing-huts.  Here  in  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Gulf  of  iEgina,  the  Greek  gods  and  goddesses  of 
the  twentieth  century  disport  themselves  the 
live-long  day,  amidst  surroundings  which  for 
scenic  beauty  it  would  be  hard  to  rival  anywhere. 
On  all  sides  are  seen,  in  their  misty  cobalt  blue 
loveliness, 

"  The  isles  of  Greece  !  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sang," 

conjuring  up  in  the  mind  dim  visions  of  the 
old  heroes  of  the  golden  age.  No  wonder  that 
W.  E.  Gladstone  and  Byron  went  mad  over 
Greece.  There  is  romance  in  the  very  atmosphere 
and  in  every  line  and  curve  of  the  wonderful 
seascape.  There  is  romance  too  in  the  undying 
art  of  the  Greeks  and  in  every  page  of  their 
absorbing  history,  which  perhaps  detracts  from 
its  value  as  mere  history,  but  which  nevertheless 
casts  its  spell  over  the  reader  and  makes  him 
loth  to  turn  the  eye  of  a  too  captious  scrutiny  on 
the  facts.  After  all,  history,  even  if  not  true,  is 
none  the  less  history  in  the  absence  of  opposition, 
and  he  is  but  a  poor  historian  who  does  not  raise 
his  own  countrymen  above  the  common  level. 
So  let  us  accept  in  simple  faith  the  exploits  of 

282 


THALASSA,    THALASSA 

the  ancient  Greeks  as  handed  down  to  us  by 
Herodotus  and  Xenophon,  for  fear  that,  under 
the  lens,  their  glory  might  fade  away  as  the 
glory  of  the  peerless  Greek  isles  fades  away  on 
close  approach.  From  a  distance  they  are  the 
softest,  the  deepest  and  the  most  heavenly  blue 
that  the  mind  can  picture,  shimmering  divinely 
in  the  ceaseless  sunshine.  At  close  quarters  they 
are  but  piles  of  arid  sand,  almost  naked  of 
vegetation.  Even  the  mainland  is  indecently 
bare  of  trees,  and  the  glare  is  indescribable. 
Greece  suffers  from  perennial  drought.  Its  rain- 
fall is  infinitesimal  and  its  sunshine  eternal  and 
desiccating,  so  that  nothing  grows  but  currants, 
olives  and  marble.  In  spite,  however,  of  their 
disappointing  character  at  close  quarters,  the 
long-distance  views  are  quite  intoxicating  in  their 
beauty,  and  none  more  so  than  the  vast  lagoon 
into  which  Themistocles  pushed  out  his  fleet  of 
barges  from  the  shelter  of  the  Straits  of  Salamis 
and  scattered  to  the  winds  the  naval  power  of 
Xerxes. 

"  A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations ; — all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day, 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they?  " 

I  was  looking  upon  the  same  view  as  Xerxes, 
but  I  was  sitting  on  no  rocky  brow,  but  on  the 
wooden  steps  that  led  down  into  the  waters  of 
the  JEgean  Sea,  and,  very  soon,  shaking  off  my 
poetic  mood,  I  slid  off  the  steps  into  the  smooth, 

283 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

warm  sea  and  struck  out  from  the  shore.  Some 
fifty  yards  out,  an  obese  Greek  was  floating  on 
his  back  and  kicking  up  the  water  with  his  feet — 
a  detestable  practice  in  any  waters,  but  par- 
ticularly detestable  under  the  poetic  shadow  of 
Salamis  and  ^Egina.  However,  feeling  at  peace 
with  all  men,  I  overlooked  his  misdemeanour  and 
as  I  passed  remarked  pleasantly  and,  as  I  hoped, 
grammatically :  "to  vdcog  Oeojuov  ^art,"  which 
rendered  into  the  English  tongue  means,  *'  the 
water  is  warm." 

I  should  perhaps  here  explain  that,  when  in 
strange  lands,  I  am  always  afflicted  by  a  perhaps 
childish  but,  none  the  less,  overmastering  desire 
to  address  the  natives  in  their  own  tongue.  It 
is  a  harmless  foible  and  occasionally  meets  with 
success.  On  this  occasion  it  did  not,  for  the 
obese  Greek,  who  was  either  deaf  or  lamentably 
ignorant  of  his  own  language,  replied  in  French 
and  told  me  what  time  it  was,  as  to  which  he 
evidently  thought  that  I  was  inquiring.  This 
was,  of  course,  a  little  disconcerting,  but  I  was 
not  wholly  discouraged,  for  it  was  evident  to  me 
that  a  man  who  was  capable  of  the  offence  of 
splashing  the  water  about  with  his  legs  was  also 
capable  of  being  ignorant  of  his  own  language. 
I  accepted  my  first  failure  with  resignation,  but 
I  was  still  none  the  less  determined,  if  I  could, 
to  justify  the  expense  to  which  my  parents  had 
been  put  in  giving  me  a  classical  education,  and,  as 
it  turned  out,  the  opportunity  was  soon  given  me. 

Having  returned  by  the  electric  train  to  Athens, 

284 


THALASSA,    THALASSA 

I  there  took  a  taxi  and  visited  some  of  the  ancient 
and  world-famous  temples.  My  brother,  in  one 
of  his  books,  has  related  with  perfect  truth  how, 
on  my  return  to  the  hotel,  I  attempted  to  remon- 
strate with  the  driver  on  the  exorbitance  of  the 
fare  demanded.  A  phrase  which  seemed  to  me 
to  meet  the  case  was  "  //?)  yeVotTo,"  an  ejaculation 
very  much  in  favour  with  St.  Paul  and  which,  in 
the  English  version  of  the  New  Testament  is 
always  translated  as  "  God  forbid !  "  What 
could  be  more  applicable?  "  Mt)  yholxo^''  I 
accordingly  thundered,  with  suitable  gestures  of 
protest.  The  man  stared  blankly  and  continued 
to  hold  up  ten  fingers  in  indication  of  the  number 
of  drachma  demanded.  I  racked  my  brain  to 
try  and  find  some  other  suitable  and  objurgatory 
phrase  from  Homer  or  the  New  Testament  with 
which  to  pulverise  him,  but  I  was  able  to  think 
of  nothing  more  scathing  than  cJ)  nonol^  which, 
according  to  the  lexicon,  is  an  exclamation  of 
surprise,  pain  or  anger  equivalent  to  "  Oh, 
shame  !  "  With  this  parting  shaft  I  withdrew 
haughtily  into  the  hotel  and  told  the  hall-porter 
to  settle  with  the  man. 

Some  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  while  seated  at 
luncheon  with  our  local  agent,  Mr.  Marino,  a 
native  of  Athens,  but  a  perfect  English  scholar, 
I  determined  to  clear  up  the  mystery  of  the 
cabman's  ignorance. 

"  Why,"  I  inquired  of  him,  "  did  my  taxi- 
driver  not  understand  when  I  said  nr\  yhoixo  ?  Is 
the  expression  obsolete  ?  " 

285 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

"When  you  said  what?"  he  asked,  with 
perplexed  and  puckered  brow. 

I  repeated  the  words. 

"  Would  you  mind  writing  it  down  ?  "  he  said, 
still  very  puzzled.     I  did  so. 

"  Oh  !  '  me  jeneto,^  "  he  said  at  once,  placing 
the  accent  on  the  first  syllable;  "  well,  of  course 
he  wouldn't  understand  you." 

A  long  discourse  on  the  modern  pronunciation 
of  Greek  followed,  in  the  course  of  which  all  my 
ideals  were  shattered.  The  one  object  of  the 
modern  Greek  seems  to  be  to  violate  all  the 
hallowed  dogmas  of  pronunciation  as  laid  down 
by  those  admirable  but  unappreciated  authors, 
Messrs.  Liddell  and  Scott.  There  can  be  no  other 
reason  for  their  reckless  disregard  for  the  age- 
established  quantities  of  vowels.  Anaxagoras  is 
now  Anaxagoras ;  Demosthenes  is  Demostheenes ; 
the  Phaleeron  Hotel  at  Piraeus  is  pronounced 
Phalyuron,  with  the  accent  on  the  first  syllable. 

"  But,"  I  remarked  to  Mr.  Marino,  at  the  close 
of  his  painful  explanation,  "  according  to  the  way 
in  which  you  pronounce  all  these  words.  Homer 
does  not  scan." 

"  No,"  he  replied,  with  the  utmost  indifference, 
"  of  course  he  does  not." 

What  more  was  there  to  be  said?  I  turned 
my  eye  on  the  passing  throng  of  ballet-skirted 
Athenians  in  the  street;  I  thought  of  Miltiades 
and  Aristides,  and  I  sighed. 

Mr.  W.  E.  Gladstone,  who  was  one  of  the  finest 
Greek  scholars  in  the  kingdom,  and  an  almost 

286 


THALASSA,   THALASSA 

fanatical  admirer  of  Greece,  paid  a  visit  on  one 
occasion  to  Athens  and  there  delivered  himself  of 
a  carefully  prepared  speech  in  the  Athenian  tongue 
to  a  large  and  deeply  interested  audience.  They 
did  not  understand  a  single  word  he  said.  At 
the  close  of  the  meeting,  one  of  those  present 
was  asked  how  he  liked  the  speech. 

"  Oh  !  it  was  magnificent,"  he  replied;  "  such 
a  wonderful  voice,  and  such  grand  gestures ! 
But,  as  he  spoke  in  English^  I  naturally  did  not 
understand  what  he  was  saying." 

Modern  Greek  appears  to  me  to  come  faster 
out  of  the  mouth  than  any  other  language  I  have 
heard  spoken.  It  sounds  as  if  it  was  entirely 
composed  of  Unguals  and  labials,  with  the  Unguals 
predominating.  Two  Athenians  discussing  politics 
sound  to  my  ear  exactly  like  two  turkey-cocks 
gobbling  at  one  another.  Anything  bearing  less 
resemblance  to  the  sonorous  sounds  we  were  at 
such  pains  to  produce  at  school  when  reading 
Sophocles  or  ^Eschylus  it  is  difficult  to  imagine. 

With  such  an  inherent  enthusiasm  for  the  sea, 
it  was  only  in  the  natural  course  of  things  that  I 
should  have  reared  my  family  from  a  very  early 
age  to  take  to  the  water.  The  task  was  not  a 
difficult  one ;  in  fact,  with  such  goodwill  did  they 
take  to  the  water  that,  after  a  few  years  of 
elementary  instruction,  a  moment  arrived — as  it 
was  inevitably  bound  to  arrive — when  the  in- 
structed began  to  show  their  heels,  or,  at  any 
rate,  the  back  of  their  heads,  to  the  instructor. 
The  instructor  accepted  the  inevitable  with  be- 

287 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

coming  philosophy,  and,  from  that  time  on,  took 
his  swimming  exercise  in  dignified  soHtude,  or,  at 
any  rate,  in  company  with  less  adventurous 
spirits. 

The  family,  especially  the  two  girls,  having 
permanently  cast  off  my  chaperonage,  became 
daring  in  the  extreme  in  their  swimming  ventures, 
and  on  more  than  one  occasion  gave  me  moments 
of  acute  parental  anxiety.  Their  delight  was  to 
swim  side  by  side  straight  out  to  sea,  and  the 
rougher  the  weather  and  the  bigger  +he  waves, 
the  greater  was  their  delight.  At  Minehead,  three 
years  ago,  half  the  population  of  the  place  collected 
to  see  my  son  and  youngest  daughter  swim  out 
to  sea  in  the  face  of  the  worst  gale  of  the  year, 
when  no  one  else  was  dreaming  of  bathing.  It 
was  no  mean  undertaking,  for  the  shore  at  Mine- 
head  shelves  very  gradually,  and  consequently 
the  breaking  waves  extend  for  a  long  way  out. 
The  return  journey  was,  of  course,  the  most 
difficult,  and  the  boy  was  smothered  by  one 
gigantic  curling  wave  and  badly  knocked  about 
before  he  could  recover  his  equilibrium.  On  this 
occasion  I  had  very  little  anxiety,  for  I  knew 
that  what  they  did  was  well  within  their  powers. 

Two  years  earlier,  however,  at  Eastbourne,  I 
had  a  very  bad  half-hour.  My  youngest  girl  had 
been  ill  for  some  time  with  swollen  glands,  and 
consequently  unable  to  bathe.  At  length,  on  a 
certain  fine  morning,  she  was  pronounced  fit  to 
take  to  the  water.  It  so  happened  that  there 
were  very  few  people  bathing  when  she  made 

288 


THALASSA,    THALASSA 

her  appearance,  and  she  consequently  attracted 
some  attention  as  she  slowly  walked  into  the 
water  and  commenced  swimming  outwards  with 
her  usual  easy  and  indolent  stroke.  It  was  no 
doubt  expected  by  the  onlookers  that,  after 
covering  some  hundred  yards  or  so,  she  would 
turn  and  come  back,  after  the  usual  fashion  of 
sea-bathers.  As,  however,  she  went  steadily  on 
and  on,  as  though  bent  on  swimming  the  Channel, 
the  crowd  on  the  beach  began  to  get  interested 
and,  finally,  excited.  Smaller  and  smaller  grew 
the  black  cap  which  she  was  wearing  till,  in  the 
end,  it  disappeared  altogether  in  the  shimmer  of 
sunshine  on  the  water.  The  people  now  began 
to  get  restive.  They  stood  up,  chattered  volubly 
in  groups  and  craned  their  necks  in  an  attempt 
to  extend  their  horizon.  I  must  confess  that  I 
did  the  same.  We  were  all  waiting  for  the 
moment  when  the  black  cap  would  once  more 
become  visible,  as  its  owner  turned  to  make  her 
way  homewards.  We  waited  and  waited,  but 
there  was  no  reappearance  of  the  black  cap. 
Nothing  met  our  expectant  gaze  but  an  unbroken 
expanse  of  cold  cruel  sea.  After  a  time  one 
woman  became  hysterical,  and  ran  up  and  down 
the  beach  wringing  her  hands  and  crying  :  "  Can 
nothing  be  done?  Can  nothing  be  done?" 
Confident  as  I  was  in  my  daughter's  swimming 
powers,  I  could  not  help  being,  to  a  certain  extent, 
infected  by  the  general  panic  and  consternation. 
Visions  of  cramp  and  kindred  calamities  took 
possession  of  me.     I  mounted  to  the  highest  level 

U  289 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

of  the  sea-front,  opposite  the  Grand  Hotel,  and 
from  that  point  of  vantage  strained  my  eyes 
seawards.  Not  a  sign  was  there  of  living  being 
on  the  shimmering  water  that  stretched  away 
towards  France.  Then  I  must  confess  that  my 
heart  sank.  I  recalled  with  a  pang  many  of  the 
(so  far  unappreciated)  virtues  of  my  lost  daughter. 
I  realised  with  contrition  the  injustice  of  many 
of  my  past  criticisms. 

While  still  scanning  the  sea  in  this  gloomy  and 
reproachful  mood,  my  eye  chanced  for  one  second 
to  light  on  a  tiny  black  speck  far  out  on  the 
horizon.  Next  moment,  it  had  gone  again,  but  I 
had  seen  all  that  I  wanted  to  see.  My  mind  was 
at  peace  and  I  returned  leisurely  to  the  beach 
and  lit  my  pipe.  When,  some  half  an  hour  later, 
my  daughter  landed  and  strolled  nonchalantly 
up  the  beach — happily  unconscious  of  the  wild 
consternation  which  she  had  aroused  in  the  breasts 
of  the  good  folk  of  Eastbourne — she  was,  I  believe, 
much  astonished  at  the  torrent  of  abuse  with 
which  I  greeted  her.  It  was  not  till  that  moment 
that  I  myself  realised  how  shaken  I  had  been. 

I  think  the  best  swimming  performance  of  my 
two  daughters  was  at  Sidmouth  four  years  ago, 
when  they  swam  to  Ladrum  Bay  against  the  tide. 
One  morning  after  breakfast  they  announced 
their  intention  of  attempting  this  swim.  I  told 
them  it  was  impossible,  as  the  tide  would  be 
against  them,  but  they  insisted  that  they  could 
do  it  in  spite  of  the  tide,  and  so — after  attempting 
in  vain  to  dissuade  them — I  went  down  to  the 

290 


THALASSA,    THALASSA 

beach  to  arrange  for  a  boat  in  which  to  accompany 
them.  While  I  was  so  engaged,  a  young  officer 
whom  I  knew,  named  Clarke,  in  the  Hampshire 
Regiment,  happened  to  come  up,  and  I  told  him 
of  what  was  in  the  wind,  and  asked  his  opinion 
as  to  whether  it  was  possible.  He  expressed 
himself  doubtful,  but  asked  if  he  might  form  one 
of  the  party.  Clarke  was  by  far  the  best  swimmer 
at  Sidmouth,  and  many  a  morning  I  had  watched 
his  performances  in  the  water  with  admiration. 
I  was,  of  course,  only  too  delighted  to  think  that 
the  girls  would  have  so  powerful  a  swimmer  as 
escort. 

Accordingly,  as  soon  as  preparations  had  been 
made,  Clarke  and  my  two  daughters  and  my  son 
entered  the  water,  accompanied  by  me  in  the 
boat  with  their  clothes  and  luncheon.  The  whole 
way  across  Sidmouth  Bay  the  tide  was  adverse, 
but  not  violent,  as  the  full  force  of  the  tide  runs 
further  out.  Half-way  across  the  bay  Clarke 
was  seized  with  cramp  and  had  to  come  into  the 
boat,  and,  shortly  afterwards,  my  son,  who  was 
only  a  boy  at  the  time,  had  to  give  up  and  also 
came  into  the  boat.  The  two  girls  swam  steadily 
on.  When  they  got  opposite  the  point  on  the 
far  side  of  Sidmouth  Bay,  I  thought  that  they 
must  surely  be  beaten,  for  the  tide  here  was 
running  very  strong,  and  I  know  that  they  swam 
hard  at  this  spot  for  fully  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  without  gaining  a  foot,  for  I  had  my  eye  on 
the  shore.  I  think,  if  anything,  they  lost  ground. 
So  utterly  hopeless  did  it  seem  that  I  strongly 

291 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

advised  them  to  give  up,  but  they  indignantly 
refused,  so  I  gave  them  some  hot  bovril  from  a 
thermos  flask  and  on  they  went.  Suddenly  the 
tide  must  have  changed,  for  they  at  once  began 
to  make  headway,  and,  after  that,  it  was  all 
plain  sailing.  They  made  Ladrum  Bay  without 
any  further  trouble  and  without  being  either  par- 
ticularly tired  or  particularly  cold.  They  were 
over  two  hours  and  a  half  in  the  water.  Girls, 
for  some  mysterious  reason,  retain  the  heat  of 
their  bodies  much  better  than  men  and,  being 
less  muscular,  are  not  so  liable  to  cramp. 


292 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PETWORTH 

During  my  mother's  twenty  years'  residence 
at  Coates  in  West  Sussex  we  were  naturally 
thrown  into  very  close  touch  with  the  house  ot 
Wyndham  at  Petworth.  Lord  Leconfield  was 
in  fact  my  mother's  landlord,  and,  as  Lady 
Leconfield  was  one  of  her  closest  friends,  it  came 
about  that  much  of  our  time  was  most  enjoyably 
spent  at  Petworth  House. 

Petworth  has  always  seemed  to  me,  and  still 
does  seem  to  me — after  a  forty  years'  acquaint- 
ance and  in  the  light  of  mellow  judgment — to 
stand  out  as  one  of  the  most  impressive  country- 
houses  in  the  kingdom.  It  is  difficult  to  say  in 
what  exactly  this  impressiveness  lies,  but  I  think 
it  is  partly  in  the  immensity  of  the  house  and 
partly  in  the  sense  of  aloofness  from  the  outside 
world  which  it  inspires.  This  aloofness  is  not 
one  of  distance,  for,  in  honest  truth,  the  outside 
world  is  very  close,  being  but  just  beyond  the 
wall  which  separates  the  house  from  the  town — 
a  wall,  however,  solid  enough  to  suggest  a  fortress 
and  so  high  that  even  the  Sussex  hay-waggoner, 
perched  on  the  top  of  his  load,  can  get  no  glimpse 
of  the  sacred  precincts  within.  Bidden  guests 
pass  through  a  gateway  of  dimensions  which  fit 

293 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

the  wall  and,  at  the  end  of  a  hundred  yards,  draw 
up  between  two  large  blocks  of  buildings,  of  which 
the  block  on  the  left  is  the  residence  of  the 
Wyndhams,  while  that  on  the  right  contains  the 
stables  and  offices,  which  are  connected  with 
the  house  by  a  subterranean  passage.  Through 
this  passage  all  communications  with  the  offices 
and  stables  pass  unseen,  so  that  the  house  itself, 
cut  off  from  all  menial  sights  and  sounds,  stands 
in  a  majestic  silence  which  is  certainly  impressive. 
The  house  itself,  too,  is  impressive.  It  is  im- 
pressive in  its  great  size;  in  the  massiveness  of 
the  stone  blocks  of  which  it  is  built,  and  in  its 
consequent  appearance  of  unshakable  solidity; 
in  the  vastness  of  the  entrance-hall  and  staircase, 
and  in  the  apparently  endless  chain  of  sitting- 
rooms — each  with  its  own  distinctive  style  of 
decoration  and  yet  all  blending  into  a  harmonious 
whole.  I  always  feel  as  though  Petworth  should 
be  tenanted  by  dames  and  courtiers  in  eighteenth- 
century  costume.  Velvet  coats  and  silk  stockings 
would  fit  in  so  much  better  with  the  Gibbons 
room,  the  marble  hall  and  the  Louis  XVI.  room 
than  knickerbockers  and  shooting-boots,  or  even 
than  modern  hunting  costume.  The  eighteenth 
century,  however,  is  adequately  represented  on 
the  walls,  where  the  matchless  collection  of 
pictures  are  a  ceaseless  joy  to  the  eye. 

The  windows  of  the  long  chain  of  sitting-rooms 
which  face  west  look  straight  out  upon  the  park, 
without  any  intervening  garden.  This  arrange- 
ment— although  so  unusual  as  to  be  almost 
unique — is  not  without  its  charm,  for  it  adds  to 

294 


PETWORTH 

the  general  sense  of  aloofness  and  peace.  Deer 
are  more  picturesque  and  less  inquisitive  than 
gardeners.  Out  in  the  park,  beautiful  with  its 
hills  and  plains  and  valleys,  the  sense  of  aloofness 
and  peace  grows  and  grows  at  each  turn.  No 
matter  in  what  direction  the  eye  wanders,  it  can 
find  nothing  that  does  not  please.  To  the  south 
the  barrier  of  the  downs,  to  the  west  the  beautiful 
valley  of  the  Rother,  to  the  north  Blackdown, 
and  to  the  east  the  rolling  weald  of  Sussex,  all 
aglow  with  that  rich  warmth  of  colouring  which 
I  always  fancy  is  a  peculiar  feature  of  this  favoured 
county.  Small  wonder  that  Turner  thought  Pet- 
worth  one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  in  England. 

No  man  ever  fitted  his  surroundings  better 
than  did  Henry  Wyndham,  second  Lord  Lecon- 
field,  for  he  himself  looked  exactly  like  a  Vandyck 
cut  out  of  the  canvas.  It  is  difficult  to  picture 
anyone  who  could  more  adequately  represent  in 
his  own  person  all  that  one  associates  with  the 
word  "  aristocrat."  In  manner,  as  in  appearance, 
he  was  the  typical  grand  seigneur^  as  conceived  by 
painters  and  portrayed  by  novelists.  In  actual 
fact  he  lived  up  to  his  appearance  and  manner, 
for  no  one  in  West  Sussex,  north  of  the  Downs, 
would  have  ventured  to  question  his  suzerainty 
over  that  little  kingdom.  The  two  Dukes  were 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Downs,  Parham  was 
let  and  Cowdray  uninhabited.  Petworth  and 
its  owner,  by  virtue  of  possessions  and  residence, 
no  less  than  by  force  of  personality,  stood  out 
pre-eminent. 

West  Sussex  is  one  of  the  few  spots  in  the 

295 


FORTY   YEARS    ON 

country  where  hunting  and  shooting  still  walk 
hand  in  hand  and  where,  as  a  consequence,  the 
country  squire  dons  knickerbockers  and  gaiters 
the  one  day,  and  breeches  and  boots  the  next. 
This  is  the  spirit  of  the  old  country  squire  of 
eighty  years  ago,  and  it  is  refreshing  to  find  it 
still  lingering  among  the  woods  and  wolds  of 
Sussex.  The  head  of  the  Wyndhams  sets  the 
example,  for,  throughout  the  winter,  he  hunts 
his  hounds  four  days  a  week  and  beats  his  coverts 
the  other  two,  and  the  whole  of  West  Sussex 
— where  it  gets  the  chance — imitates  the  example 
thus  set  by  its  highest  representative.  In  the 
happy  days  when  I  was  "  West  Sussex,"  I  had 
many  a  glorious  day  with  Lord  Leconfield,  both 
in  breeches  and  boots  and  in  knickerbockers. 
The  outlying  shoots  for  which  these  last  were 
donned  were  very  delightful  affairs  in  their  way. 
Neighbours  figured  prominently  on  these  occasions, 
and  there  was  much  ''  Sussex  "  talk.  The  whole 
atmosphere  indeed  was  heavily  charged  with 
"  Sussex,"  from  the  beaters  in  their  white  smocks, 
long  wash-leather  thigh-gaiters  and  wide-awake 
hats  with  red  ribbons,  to  the  red-faced,  dewy- 
nosed  "  stops,"  contentedly  gnawing  raw  turnips, 
and  saluting  each  gun  as  he  approached  with  a 
wide  indefinite  sweep  of  the  arm.  The  woods 
with  their  copper-coloured  bracken  undergrowth 
and  the  russet  leaves  still  hanging  thick  on  the 
oak  trees  lent  themselves  harmoniously  to  the 
general  scenic  effect,  and  proclaimed  at  every 
turn    the    county  to  which  they   belonged.      A 

296 


PETWORTH 

further  suggestion  of  old-world  sport  was  im- 
parted to  the  proceedings  by  the  terrific  detona- 
tions of  Lord  Leconfield's  gun.  He  always  shot 
with  black  powder  and — despite  constant  evidence 
to  the  contrary — sturdily  refused  to  believe  in 
the  efficacy  of  anything  else.  He  himself  ate  no 
luncheon  and  he  was  very  impatient  of  the  delay 
occasioned  by  the  necessary  fortifying  of  weaker 
vessels.  The  retired  colonel  who,  at  the  smell 
of  the  flesh-pots,  rubs  his  hands  and  remarks  : 
"  By  no  means  the  least  enjoyable  part  of  the 
day's  proceedings,"  was  distinctly  out  of  place 
at  the  Petworth  shoots,  for  an  interval  of  ten 
minutes  was  as  much  as  the  impatience  of  our 
host  could  tolerate.  The  sport,  however,  was 
always  good. 

Many  of  Lord  Leconfield's  social  equals  pro- 
fessed to  be,  and  I  believe  honestly  were,  fright- 
ened of  him  because  of  his  autocratic  temper 
and  of  a  certain  grand  manner,  but  there  was 
really  nothing  to  be  frightened  of  in  him,  for  he 
was  not  only  one  of  the  kindest  of  men,  but  also 
one  of  the  readiest  to  admit  error  in  himself  if 
it  were  pointed  out  to  him.  He  was  quick  to 
appreciate  the  humorous  side  of  any  incident, 
even  if  it  were  directed  against  himself.  Curiously 
enough,  the  fear  of  him  which  some  of  his  equals 
professed  was  not  in  the  least  shared  by  the 
farmer  class,  who  would  chat  with  him  freely 
and  on  terms  of  perfect  equality. 

He  was  intensely  "  Sussex."  Affairs  outside 
of  this  sacred  county  had  only  a  passing  interest 

297 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

for  him.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  everyone  that  Hved,  and  everything 
that  went  on,  in  his  own  county  or,  at  any  rate, 
in  the  western  half  of  that  county. 

No  one  that  I  have  ever  met  has  left  upon  me 
the  same  impression  of  a  little  monarch  ruling  a 
contented  and  loyal  community.  Walter  Francis, 
fifth  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  had  no  doubt  greater 
possessions,  but  the  very  extent  of  those  pos- 
sessions and  the  fact  that  they  were  scattered 
about  here,  there  and  everywhere  prevented  the 
intimate  relations  between  the  over-lord  and  lesser 
fry  which  was  so  noticeable  at  Petworth.  A  man 
cannot  own  a  dozen  country  places  and  be  well 
known  at  each;  or,  indeed,  at  any,  if  he  dis- 
tributes his  favours  impartially.  Then,  again, 
in  the  Buccleuch  possessions  there  were  many 
grimly  Radical  spots,  whereas  West  Sussex  was 
fatuously  Conservative. 

Charles  Wyndham,  the  present  Lord  Lecon- 
field,  married  my  great-niece,  whose  mother  was 
an  Anson.  In  most  respects  he  has  followed 
closely  in  his  father's  footsteps,  but  is  perhaps 
rather  less  of  a  shooting  man  and  more  of  a 
hunting  man.  The  dignity  of  manner  of  his 
father  is  tempered  by  the  quick  wit  of  his  mother 
(a  sister  of  Lord  Rosebery).  He  is  as  whole- 
heartedly "  Sussex  "  as  his  predecessor,  and  takes 
an  even  more  active  interest  in  county  adminis- 
tration. He  is  less  of  the  autocrat  and  more 
of  the  country  squire;  less  alarming  and  more 
sociable.     The  routine  of  Petworth  is  in  the  main 

298 


PETWORTH 

unchanged.  It  remains  one  of  the  few  spots  in 
England  where  one  can  forget  that  there  has 
been  a  war.  Its  menage  is  pre-war;  its  atmo- 
sphere is  pre-war.  Its  hounds  (whose  kennels 
are  in  the  park)  still  hunt  the  country  four  days 
a  week  without  subscription.  Its  entourage 
remains — in  all  essentials — the  same  as  I  first 
remember  it  forty  years  ago.  New  houses,  those 
hideous  excrescences  which  have  broken  out  in 
so  many  lovely  districts,  like  scorbutic  eruptions 
relieving  an  overcharged  system,  have  no  place 
in  the  sleepy  landscape  on  which  the  eye  rests 
from  Petworth  park. 


299 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN   MEMORIAM 

In  the  early  years  of  the  twentieth  century 
there  was  to  be  found  four  miles  from  Petworth 
a  small  but,  in  many  ways,  unique  establishment. 
Here  my  mother,  who  was  at  that  time  approach- 
ing her  ninetieth  year,  lived  alone  amidst  sur- 
roundings which  she  grew  to  be  as  fond  of  as 
though  they  carried  with  them  life-long  associa- 
tions. It  was  a  very  wonderful  thing  for  an  old 
lady  of  that  age  to  live  alone  and  yet  be  happy ; 
and  yet  happy  she  undoubtedly  was,  with  an 
irrepressible  joie  de  vivre  that  many  a  girl  of 
twenty  might  have  envied.  In  her  self-made 
garden,  in  her  cows,  her  poultry,  and  even  her 
pigs,  she  took  a  never-flagging  interest,  as  well  as 
in  the  personal  welfare  of  all  who  served  her  and 
in  the  families  of  all  who  served  her.  And  so 
she  was  never  bored  and  always  happy.  This 
faculty  of  being  perfectly  happy,  with  no  com- 
panions of  her  own  class  to  talk  to,  did  not 
prevent  her  welcoming  with  outstretched  arms 
the  sporadic  visits  of  members  of  the  little  army 
that  owed  her  their  existence.  At  the  time  of  her 
death  in  1905  my  mother  could  boast  between  160 
and  170  direct  descendants,  and  it  was  seldom 
that  a  week  passed  without  one  or  another  of 

300 


Photo.  W.  G-  D.  Downey. 


Four  Generations. 


Standing:  DUKE  AND  DUCHESS  OF  AberCORN'. 

Seated:    DOWAGER    DUCHESS    OF    ABERCORN,    MaRQUIS    OF    HAMILTON    AND 

HIS   DAUGHTER,    LADY    MARY   HAMILTON. 


IN    MEMORIAM 

these  descendants  passing  a  night  or  two  under 
the  roof  of  Coates  Castle,  as  her  residence  was 
locally  called,  though  it  was  in  truth  no  castle 
at  all,  but  just  a  castellated  country-house  of 
moderate  size. 

The  majority  of  the  aforesaid  170  descendants 
were  grandchildren  and  great-grandchildren,  and, 
in  the  ordinary  passage  of  events,  these  grand- 
children and  great-grandchildren  became  engaged 
to  persons  of  the  other  sex.  On  such  occasions, 
the  person  of  the  other  sex  was — according  to 
inviolable  custom — taken  down  to  Coates  to 
receive  the  blessing  of  "  Grannie."  And  to  him 
or  her,  as  the  case  might  be,  my  mother  became 
"  Grannie  "  from  that  day  on.  No  one  dreaded 
the  ordeal,  for  my  mother  had  never  been  known 
to  pass  an  unkind  criticism  on  any  single  one  of 
the  many  probationers  who  had  come  down  to 
Coates  seeking  admittance  into  her  sacred — but 
very  widespread — family  circle.  She  obstinately 
refused  to  see  any  of  the  failings  which  were 
occasionally  so  noticeable  to  less  kindly-hearted 
critics,  but  pounced  like  a  cat  on  the  probationer's 
outstanding  good  points,  and  dwelt  admiringly 
on  these  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  comments ; 
and  so  the  probationer  invariably  went  away  as 
full  of  worship  of  "  Grannie  "  as  the  chorus  of 
grandchildren  and  great-grandchildren,  who  never 
wearied  of  singing  of  her  incomparable  sweetness. 

Up  to  her  ninetieth  year  my  mother  always 
insisted  on  attending  the  weddings  of  her  descend- 
ants, and,  on  these  occasions,  she  was  always — 

801 


FORTY    YEARS    ON 

after  the  bride — the  focus-point  of  all  the  love 
and  homage  that  such  family  gatherings  call 
forth.  Shortly  before  her  death,  however,  it 
was  found  that  the  strain  of  these  functions  was 
more  than  her  strength  was  equal  to,  and 
thenceforward  she  was  persuaded,  much  against 
her  will,  to  stay  quietly  down  at  Coates  and  to 
let  the  post  carry  the  messages  of  love  and  good- 
will with  which  her  heart  was  charged  almost  to 
overflowing. 

She  retained  her  amazing  vitality  and  keen 
interest  in  all  family  matters  till  the  end,  which 
came  in  her  ninety-third  year.  She  had  gone 
through  so  many  shaking  illnesses  from  which 
she  had  always  emerged  smiling  and  apparently 
scathless  that  I  think  we  had  almost  come  to 
look  upon  her  as  immortal;  and,  when  the  end 
came,  we  felt  as  though  the  bottom  had,  literally, 
dropped  out  of  the  world.  With  regard  to  a 
certain  small  world  this  was  no  more  than  the 
truth,  for,  with  the  lowering  of  the  blinds  at 
Coates,  there  passed  away  the  one  golden  link 
that  held  together  some  fifty  families  scattered 
here  and  there  about  the  United  Kingdom. 


802 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abercom,  Louisa,  Duchess  of, 
1 1 }  marriage  of,  35 ;  her 
nttmerous  descendants,  300 ; 
her  wonderful  vitality  and 
sympathetic  nature,  301 

Abercom,  first  Duke  of,  11; 
appointed  Lord-Lieutenant  of 
Ireland,  15;  at  Bentley 
Priory,  30;  marries  Lady 
Louisa  Russell,  35;  death  of, 
43 ;  veneration  of  Irish  people 
for,  ibid. ;  at  Arisaig,  79,  106 ; 
his  promptitude  in  a  gale,  108 ; 
his  bravery,  110;  his  pug- 
nacity, 111;  his  adventure 
with  Mr.  Costello,  112;  starts 
cricket  at  sixty,  114;  second 
term  of  office,  123;  his  excel- 
lence as  a  public  speaker,  124 

Aberdeen,  Lord,  34 

Achnacarry,  visit  to,  86 

Adams,  Porter,  62 

Adventure  with  a  taxi-driver, 
an,  285 

Albany,  Duke  of,  21 

Aldershot,  soldiering  at,  164; 
insane  wagering  at,  ibid. 

Alfrey,  Lieut.,  60th  Rifles,  and 
"  Spring-heeled  Jack,"  163 

Alison,  Mr.,  a  brave  Scots 
engineer,  110 

Ambrose,  "  Bottles,"  a  Harrow 
bully,  104 ;  punished  by  Fred 
Leyland,  105 

Andes,  the,  failure  to  ascend, 
256;  grandeur  of,  269 

Anglesea,  Lord,  Beaudesert  Park 
rented  from,  12 

Ansons,  the,  visits  to,  at  Shug- 
borough,  76 

VOBTT  TBABS  OK. 


Archer,  Fred,  a  famous  jockey, 

199,  200,  201,  202 
Ardverikie,  deer-stalking  at,  82; 

petty  jealousy  of  guests   at, 

83)   Sir  Edwin  Landseer  at, 

ibid. 
Arisaig,    79;     deer-stalking    at, 

91 ;   a  delightful  spot,  106 
Asquith,  Mr.,  at  Dumfries,  142 
Asquith,  Mrs.,  6 
Astley,  Mr.,  79,  106 
Atlin  City,  a  solitary  lady  in, 

236 ;  its  wonderful  trout,  242 

B 

Baal,  "  worship  "  of,  at  Harrow, 
95 

Balfour,  Rt.  Hon.  A.  J.,  at 
Drumlanrig,  142 

BallincoUig,  soldiering  at,  188 
et  seq. 

BaUyrennan,  a  model  Irish 
village,  48 

Barons  Cotirt,  Ulster,  42;  Duke 
of  Clarence  visits,  44;  life  at, 
45  et  seq. ;  an  unpretentious 
place,  56;  woodcock  shoots 
at,  70 

Bashful  ladies  at  Dublin  State 
Drawing-Rooms,  16 

Bath,  Lord,  and  the  grandeur 
of  Drmnlanrig,  133 

Bathing  (ladies)  in  the  Sixties,  5 

Beasley,  Johnnie,  198 

Beaudesert  Park,  12 

Bell,  John,  head -keeper  at  Drum- 
lanrig, and  the  tip,  143 

Bessie  Bell  mountain,  49 

Bezada,  Don  Miguel  de,  259, 
261,  262 

Bezada,  Don  Vincente  de,  262,265 


805 


INDEX 


Black,  William,  author  of  "  Land 
of  Lome,"  107 

Blandford,  Lord,  91 

Blessed  Shades,  18  ef  seq. 

Boughton  Hotise,  Kettering,  a 
miniature  Versailles,  133 

Bowen,  Edward,  author  of 
"  Forty  Years  On,"  102 

Brewer,  Mr.,  201 

British  Columbia,  hvimming- 
birds  of,  279 

Brocket  Hall,  early  days  at,  11 

Buccleuch  Scottish  estates,  enor- 
mous numbers  of  game  on,  136 

Buccleuch,  fifth  Duchess  of, 
hospitaUty  of,  130 

Buccleuch,  sixth  Duchess  of,  147 

Buccleuch,  Charles,  fourth  Duke 
of,  his  acciunxolation  of  country 
seats,  132;  his  army  of 
labourers,  ibid. 

Buccleuch,  Wedter  Francis,  fifth 
Duke  of,  at  Drumlanrig,  130; 
his  hospitaUty,  ibid. ;  his  many 
possessions,  131 ;  his  valuable 
art  collection,  133;  his  charity, 
136;  grand  seigneur  and 
country  sqmre,  137 

Buccleuch,  WiUiam  Henry,  sixth 
Duke  of,  136,  147;  death  of, 
156;  lovable  disposition  and 
happy  married  life  of,  ibid. 

Buller,  CharUe,  26 ;  his  fascinating 
personality,  27 ;  sad  end  of,  29 

Bull -fighting  in  Spain  and  Peru 
compared,  273-4 

Burke,  Micky,  170 

Burroughs,  Captain  Kildare,  172, 
173 

Butler,  Dr.,  headmeister  of 
Harrow,  105 

Byron,  Lord,  282 


Cambridge,  H.R.H.  the  Duke  of, 

180,  181,  184,  185 
Cameron  of  Lochiel,  visit  to,  at 

Achnacarry,  86;    first  stag  at, 

86-90;     a    typical    Highland 

chieftain,  90 


Cannon,  Tom,  202 
Chamberlain,  Mr.  Joseph,  224 
Chapman,  A.  P.,  121 
Chesterfield  Hovise,  36 
Chilkoot   Pass,    Klondyke,    the, 

225 
Chosica,   an  unsuccessful  climb 

at,  256 
Chuquitambo,  265 
Clarence,  Duke  of,  visits  Barons 

Court,  44 
Close,  Pat,  drawing-room  acro- 
batics of,  176 
Colchester,    soldiering    at,    162; 

"  Spring-heeled  Jack  "  at,  ibid. 
Copley,  Catherine,  marriage  of, 

31 
Copley  curse,  the,  33 
Copley,  Sir  Joseph,  33 
Cork,  drawbacks  to  himting  at, 

190,  191 ;  regimental  races  at, 

ibid. 
Corry,  Dr.,  210 
Costello,  Mr.,  and  the  Duke  of 

Abercorn,  112 
Cricket  in  Dublin,  114 
Cross,  Dr.,  a  doughty  himtsman, 

190;    executed  for  wife  mvu"- 

der,  191 
Cxmningham,  C.  J.,  198,  199 


D 

Dalbiac,  Mr.,  164,  165;  killed  in 

Boer  War,  166 
Dalkeith,     Earl    of,     11,     148; 

death  of,  152;   endearing  per- 
sonality of,  ibid. 
Dalkeith,  Lady,  74 
Dawnay,  Jack,  166 
Dawson,    Mr.,    Lord    Mayor    of 

Dublin,   hostile   reception  of, 

in  Deny,  182-4 
Desborough,  Lord,  103 
Devine,  Dan,  67 
Dillon,  John,  203,  211 
Dinner  in  the  Sixties  a  reUgious 

rite,  8 
Dogherty,  John,  69 
Dogherty,  Mr.,  defeated  by  Lord 

Frederic  Hamilton,  212 


806 


INDEX 


Doneraile,  Lord,  192 

Drvunlanrig  Castle,  tobacco  taboo 
at  in  the  Sixties,  129;  its 
wonderful  art  collection,  133; 
Lord  Bath  on  the  grandeur  of, 
ibid. ;  its  one  hundred  miles 
of  grass  rides,  ibid. ;  first 
visit  to,  ibid. ;  over -weighted 
shooting  parties  at,  138;  visit 
of  present  King  and  Queen  to, 
141;  Rt.  Hon.  A.  J.  Balfour 
at,  142 

Duchess  of  Leinster,  the  late,  7 

Dudley,  Lord,  82 

Dundreary  foppery  in  the 
Sixties,  4 

Durham,  John,  third  Earl  of, 
and  the  donkey-boy,  12 

Durham,  second  Earl  of,  73,  74, 
76,  79,  108 

Dtirham,  Lady,  72 

Dyer,  Sam,  40 

Dyke,  Sir  William  Hart,  at 
Barons  Court,  70 


E 

Early   Victorian   days,    affecta- 
tions of,  3 
Eastwell,  early  days  at,  36 
EUice,   Mrs.    Edward,   visit   to, 
at  Invergarry,  84 


Famous  musical  combinations, 
102 

Faning,  Eaton,  102 

Farmer,  John,  and  part-singing 
at  Harrow,  96,  98,  99 ;  "  Forty 
Years  On  "  composed  by,  102 

Farren,  Nellie,  and  Gaiety  bur- 
lesque, 177,  178}  magnetic 
personality  of,  179 

Female  dress  in  the  Sixties, 
disfiguring  effect  of,  10 

Feversham,  Lord,  7 

Fitzwygram,  Sir  Frederick,  167, 
168 


Forbes,  Walter,  captain  of  Eton 

school    cricket    eleven,     119; 

his  record  cricket -ball  throw, 

120 
Fort,  Dick,  166,  166 
"  Forty    Years    On,"    Harrow's 

National    Anthem,    composed 

by  John  Farmer,  101 
Foster,  Colonel  Frank,  123 


G 

Gaiety  burlesque  and  Victorian 
fops,  4 

Gaiety  Theatre  burlesque,  popu- 
larity of,  177 

Gaiety  Theatre  chorus  and  those 
of  the  present  day  compared, 
177;  an  incident  at  Hounslow, 
179 

Gainsborough,  a  buck-jumping 
horse,  peculiarities  of,  20 

Garnet,  Colonel,  officer  com- 
manding 11th  Hussars,  160 

Georgian  period,  coarseness  of 
the,  3 

Gladstone,  Mr.,  fascinating  per- 
sonality of,  223,  224,  282} 
his  admiration  for  Greece, 
286;  lecture  in  Greek  at 
Athens  not  understood,  287 

Gordon,  Lord  Esm6,  175,  177 

Gordon,  Lord  Granville,  175, 
177 

Gormley,  Hugh,  53 

Grace,  W.  G.,  173 

Greek,  modern  pronunciation  of, 
286 

Greville,  Hugh,  11 

Grimston,  Bob,  119 

Guayaquil,  a  pestiferous  port, 
253 ;  its  unhealthy  town,  254 


H 

Hadow,  Walter,  118 

Haggard,  Fred,  226,  230,  237, 
239,  240,  241,  245,  247,  249, 
256,  257,  259,  261,  276,  277 

Haggard,  Mrs.,  247,  250 


307 


INDEX 


Haiti,    the    mystery    island    of 

the    world,    247;      a    French 

£irmy     annihilated    in,     248; 

visit  to,  260 
Haitian  Navy,  the,  252 
Hamilton,  Lady  Maria,  32 
Hamilton,  Lord,  32,  34 
Hamilton,  Lord  Qaud,  70,  80, 

203 
Hamilton,  Lord  Frederic,  35,  45, 

60,  73,  74,  80,  81 ;   at  Harrow, 

94;  203,  212 
Hamilton,  Lord  Greorge,  121,  203 
Hamilton-Copley    alliance,    dis- 
astrous result  of,  31-33 
Hardy,  Bob,  187 
Harrow,  at  school  at,  94  et  seq. ; 

"worship"    of   Baal    at,    95; 

part-singing  at,  95 ;     "  Forty 

Years  On,"  national   anthem 

of,  quoted,  101;  fight  with  a 

bully  at,  105 
Harrow,  cricket  at,  118 
Henessey,  Mons.  J.,  277 
Herbert-Smith,  Mr.,  239 
Herdman,  IVIr.  Emerson  T.,  67, 

221 
High  altitudes,  effects  of  on  the 

constitution,  258,  262 
Hill,  Alexander,  239 
Hill,  Lord  George,  217 
HilUngdon,  Lord,  63 
Hitchcock,    Mrs.,    solitary   lady 

in  AtUn,  236,  237,  239 
Hone,  Willie,  115,  117,  118 
Hounslow,    soldiering    at,     172 

et  seq. 
House     of     Commons,     the,     a 

disappointing  experience,  222 
Howson,     Mr.,     song -writer    of 

Harrow,  102 
Hunting  in  Co.  Cork,  drawbacks 

to,  199 
Hussars,  11th,  life  in,  159  et  seq. 


Impett,  Mr.,  manager  of  the 
Oroya  Railway,  an  intrepid 
troUey  driver,  268,  270,  272 

In  Memoriam,  300-302 


Invergarry,  deer-stalking  at,  84-6 
Invemess-shire,    enervating   cli- 
mate of,  109 
I  Zingari  Club,  26 


Jackson,  Warren,  193  ff. 

Jeicmel,  a  forbidden  town  in 
Haiti,  247 

Jxmin,  260,  261 ;  beautiful  altar- 
pieces  at,  265;  Pizarro  and, 
266 


Kempster,  Mr.,  115 

Kildare  hovinds  and  Ward  Union, 
first  riding  over  fence  lessons 
with  the,  125 

King  Edward,  140 

King-Edwardes,  Colonel,  212 

King  George  at  Dnunlanrig,  141 

Kingston,  Jamaica,  shark-in- 
fested waters  of,  281 

Klondyke,  rush  to,  in  1897-8, 
225;  tragedies  of  Chilkoot 
and  White  Passes,  ibid. ;  gold 
mining  in,  244 


Labrador  retrievers,  origin  of 
breed  from  Langholm,  151 

Lambert,  Lady  Fanny,  17 

Lambert,  Gustavus,  Viceregal 
Chamberlain  at  Dublin,  17 

Lambton,  Lady  Bee,  and  a  pony 
race,  78 

Lambton  Castle,  72 ;  its  colossal 
hall,  73 

Lambton  Worm,  the,  73 

Land  of  Lome,  the,  107 

Langholm,  Labrador  retrievers 
fijret  bred  at,  151 ;  visit  to,  148 ; 
improvements  made  by  Lord 
George  Scott  at,  154;  aston- 
ishing shooting  at,  155-6 

Landseer,  Sir  Edwin,  at  Ard- 
verikie,  84 

Lansdowne,  Lord,  91 


808 


INDEX 


Lawrence,  Sir  Thomas,  31 

Leconfield,  Lady,  293 

Leconfield,  Lord,  293,  296,  297, 
298 

Leconfield,  Henry  Wyndham, 
second  Lord,  295 

Leeds,  Duchess  of,  108 

Letterbin,  a  model  Irish  village, 
48 

Leyland,  Fred,  at  Harrow,  103, 
104;   punishes  a  bully,  105 

Lichfield,  Lord,  71,  108 

Lima,  a  mud-built  town  and  a 
tropical  rainstorm,  255;  bull- 
fights in,  compared  with  Spain, 
27a-4 

Lochiel.  See  Cameron  of 
Lochiel. 

Loch  Laggan  inn,  81 

Lynn  Canal,  the,  grandeur  of, 
229 


Mount -Edgcumbe,    Earl   of,  11, 

75  n. 
Mount  St.  Elias,  229 


N 

Newport,  Lord,  at  Barons  Court, 

70 
Ntu-se,  the,  and  the  slop-basin, 

13 


O 

"Old   Marquis,"    the,    30;     his 

ill-fated     first    marriage,    31; 

marries    and    divorces    Lady 

Cecil  Hamilton,  33 
Oroya  Railway,  a  fine  engineering 

work,    258;     trolley    driving 

on  the,  270 


M 

McAnany,  Paddy,  64,  66,  67 
McBay,  Alec,  64,  66 
McConologue,  Father,  213,  214 
McFadden,  Father,  of  Gweedore, 

visit  to,  218-220 
McLeod,  Dr.,  and  a  wonderfvil 

charitable  collection,  144-5 
Mahaffy,  Prof.,  114 
Manchester,  the  Duke  of,  71 
Marino,  Mr.,  285,  286 
Merrick,  Frank,  256,  259,  261 
Middleton,  Bay,  excitability  of, 

126 
Mid-Victorian  girls,   artificiality 

of,    6;     pastes    and   powders 

unknown  to,  ibid. 
Millionaires,       self-made,       and 

Society  in  the  Sixties,  10 
Mining  camps,  summary  pimish- 

ments  in,  242 
Mitchell,  R.  H.,  25,  27 
Montgomery,  Captain,  a  swim- 
mer in  shark -infested  waters, 

281 
Montgomery,  Sir  Hugh,  69 
Morris,  Charlie  Mc  Patrick,  68 
Mount-Edgcumbe,  75 


Palmerston,  Lord,  Brocket  Hall 
rented  from,  11 

Panama  crabs,  276 

Panama  hats  not  obtainable  in 
Panama,  276 

Parliament,  222-3 

Parliamentary  elections  in  Ire- 
land, 203  et  seq. 

Part -singing  at  Harrow,  96,  98 

Pearl  islands,  the,  276 

Pembroke,  Lady,  108 

Peru,  247  et  seq.  j  its  suitability 
for  food  production,  263; 
dangerous  natives  of,  264; 
unpopularity  of  the  British 
in,  273 }   bull-fights  in,  273 

Peruvian  Pampa,  the,  one  hun- 
dred mile  ride  across,  258; 
sparsely  inhabited,  266 

Peruvians'  hatred  of  the  British, 
272 

Pet  worth,  293;  Lord  Leconfield 
and,  295-7 

Petworth  House,  293;  impres- 
siveness  of,  294 

Philip  McHugh  island,  47 

Pitt,  William,  at  Bentley  Priory, 
30 


309 


INDEX 


Piraeus,    the,    an   ideal   bathing 

place,  282 
Pizarro  and  the  altar-pieces  of 

Jvmin,  266 
Politics,  203  et  seq. 
Ponsonby,  Fred,  119 
Popham,  Judge,  15 
Popham,      Mrs.,      a     charming 

singer,  14 
Port  Antonio,  Jamaica,  a  perfect 

bathing  place,  275 
Prince  of  Wales  (King  George  V), 

the,    at    Barons    Court,    19; 

visit  to  Cork,  hostile  reception 

at,  ibid. 
Princess  Mary  at  White  Lodge, 

186 
Princess  of  Seattle  turns  turtle 

in   Queen   Charlotte's   Sound, 

229 
Princess  of  Wales  (Queen  Mary), 

the,    at    Barons    Court,    19; 

visit  to  Cork,  hostile  reception 

at,  i^id. 
Professional  cricketers  at  Dub- 
lin, 115;  at  Harrow,  119 
Professioneil  jockeys  and  racing, 

201 


Quasi -clerical  bowlers,  114 
Queen     Alexandra     at     Dublin 
Castle,     18;      her    wonderful 
memory,  19 
Queen  Charlotte's  Sotmd,  Prin- 
cess of  Seattle  turns  turtle  in, 
229 
Queen  Mary  at  Drumlanrig,  141 
Queen    Victoria    heads    crusade 
against  tobacco  in  the  Sixties, 
128 


R 

River  Moume,  Ireland,  63 
Rose,    Sir    Hugh.     ASee    Strath- 

naim.  Lord. 
Royce,     Edward,     and     Gaiety 

bvirlesque,  177,  178 


Russell,  Lady  Louisa,  marriage 
of,  to  the  first  Duke  of  Aber- 
com,  35 

S 

Scot,  the,  generosity  of,  144; 
innate  honesty  of,  145 

Scott,  Lord  Francis,  155 

Scott,  Lord  George,  153;  intro- 
duces improvements  at  Lang- 
holm, 154 

Scott,  Lord  Henry,  147,  155 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  132 

Seven  Sisters,  the,  11  et  seq. 

Sexton,  Mr.,  Irish  M.P.,  224 

Shark-infested  waters,  swimming 
in,  281 

Shaw,  Alfred,  116 

Shifner,  Mr.,  a  Harrow  student, 
95 

Sixties,  the,  and  the  present 
day  compared,  2 ;  women 
and  swimming  in,  5;  pro- 
fessional beauties  in,  6 ;  draw- 
ing-room conversation  in,  7; 
high  status  of  doctors  in,  9; 
Society  small  in,  9 ;  no  glaring 
parade  of  wealth  in,  10; 
fashions  in,  ibid. 

Skagway,  the,  Klondyke,  225, 
231 

Society  in  the  Sixties,  exclusive- 
ness  of,  9 

Soldiering,  159  et  seq. 

Soroche,  the  (mo\m.tain  fever), 
262 

Southesk,  Lord,  91 

Spain,  bull-fights  in,  compared 
with  those  in  Peru,  273 

Spanish  Peruvian,  ancestry  of, 
272 

Spencer,  Eari,  126,  127 

Sports  and  exercises  and  the 
mid-Victorian  girl,  5 

Stewart,  Baby,  25,  26,  27 

Strathnaim,  Lord,  Conamander- 
in-Chief  in  Ireland,  22,  23; 
his  absent-mindedness,  24 

Suez,  sharks  at,  281 

Surtees,  Robert,  3 


810 


INDEX 


Tagasmayo,  260 

Taku  River,  the,  a  fisherman's 
paradise,  233 

Teck,  H.S.H.,  the  Duke  of,  his 
hospitality  at  White  Lodge, 
186 

Tenant  fanners  of  the  Border 
counties,  sterling  qualities  of, 
137 

Terry,  Edward,  and  Gaiety  bur- 
lesque, 177,  178 

Thalassa,  Thalassa,  275  ei  acq. 

Tipperary  Steeplechases,  197 

Tobacco  considered  deadly  to 
feminine  organisms  in  the 
Sixties,  128;  Queen  Victoria 
leads  crusade  against,  128 


Vaughan,  Kate,  and  Gaiety  bur- 
lesque, 177 

Viceregal  cricket  in  Dublin,  25 

Viceregal  days,  123  et  seq. 

Viceregal  Lodge,  Dublin,  State 
Dra  wing-Rooms  at,  16; 
country-house  life  at,   123 


Victorian  fops,  3 

Vielle  Castel,  Comte  de,  277 


W 

Ward  Union  and  Kildare  hoimds, 
first  riding  over  fence  lessons 
with,  125 

Webb,  Fred,  200 

Webbe,  A.  J.,  118 

West  Donegal  and  the  Armada, 
220;  indolence  of  peasantry 
of,  221 

West  Sussex,  hvmting  and  shoot- 
ing in,  295,  296 

Western  miners,  good  qualities 
of,  242 

White  Pass,  Klondyke,  the,  225 

Wilmot,  Robert,  256,  259,  276 

Winchilsea,  Lord,  35 

Winterton,  Lord,  92;  popu- 
larity of,  93 


Yukon,  desolation  of,  232 
Yukon  River,  226 


311 


\ 


J£S0UTHB1N  REGIONAL  UBflAHY  FAQUTY 


A     000  356  800     3 


